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HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY, 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND 

AND   OTHER   PEOPLE 


BY 


SARAH    ORNE  JEWETT 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


1899 


Copyright,  1888, 
BY  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electro'yped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


M  A  / 


THIS  BOOK  OF   STORIES 

IS  DEDICATED  WITH   GRATEFUL   AFFECTION 
TO 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


953012 


NOTE. 

Two  of  these  stories,  "  Mere  Pochette  "  and  "  The 
King  of  Folly  Island,"  are  reprinted  from  Harper's 
Magazine-  "Law  Lane"  and  "Miss  Peck's  Promo- 
tion"  from  Scribner's ;  and  "The  Landscape  Cham 
ber,"  "Miss  Tempy's  Watchers,  "and  "The  Courting 
of  Sister  Wisby "  from  The  Atlantic.  "A  Village 
Shop  "  is  now  printed  for  the  first  time. 


CONTENTS. 


PAQH 

THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND       ....  1 

THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY     ...  50 

THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER 81 

LAW  LANE 115 

Miss  PECK'S  PROMOTION 167 

Miss  TEMPY'S  WATCHERS  .....  208 

A  VILLAGE  SHOP .  229 

MERE  POCHETTE        .        .        .        ...        .  291 


THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 


THE  September  afternoon  was  nearly 
spent,  and  the  sun  was  already  veiled  in  a 
thin  cloud  of  haze  that  hinted  at  coming 
drought  and  dustiness  rather  than  rain.  No 
body  could  help  feeling  sure  of  just  such 
another  golden  day  on  the  morrow  ;  this  was 
as  good  weather  as  heart  could  wish.  There 
on  the  Maine  coast,  where  it  was  hard  to  dis 
tinguish  the  islands  from  the  irregular  out 
line  of  the  main-land,  where  the  summer 
greenness  was  just  beginning  to  change  into 
all  manner  of  yellow  and  russet  and  scarlet 
tints,  the  year  seemed  to  have  done  its  work 
and  begun  its  holidays. 

Along  one  of  the  broad  highways  of  the 
bay,  in  the  John's  Island  postmaster's  boat, 
came  a  stranger  —  a  man  of  forty-two  or 
forty-three  years,  not  unprosperous  but  hardly 
satisfied,  and  ever  on  the  quest  for  enter- 


2  THE  KING  GF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

tainment,  though  he  called  his  pleasure  by 
the  hard  name  of  work,  and  liked  himself 
the  better  for  such  a  wrong  translation. 
Fate  had  made  him  a  business  man  of  good 
success  and  reputation ;  inclination,  at  least 
so  he  thought,  would  have  led  him  another 
way,  but  his  business  ventures  pleased  him 
more  than  the  best  of  his  holidays.  Some 
how  life  was  more  interesting  if  one  took  it 
by  contraries  ;  he  persuaded  himself  that  he 
had  been  looking  forward  to  this  solitary 
ramble  for  many  months,  but  the  truth  re 
mained  that  he  had  found  it  provokingly 
hard  to  break  away  from  his  city  office,  his 
clerks,  and  his  accounts.  He  had  grown 
much  richer  in  this  last  twelve-month,  and 
as  he  leaned  back  in  the  stern  of  the  boat 
with  his  arm  over  the  rudder,  he  was  ponder 
ing  with  great  perplexity  the  troublesome 
question  what  he  ought  to  do  with  so  much 
money,  and  why  he  should  have  had  it  put 
into  his  careless  hands  at  all.  The  bulk  of 
it  must  be  only  a  sort  of  reservoir  for  the 
sake  of  a  later  need  and  ownership.  He 
thought  with  scorn  of  some  liberal  gifts  for 
which  he  had  been  aggravatingly  thanked 
and  praised,  and  made  such  an  impatient 
gesture  with  his  shoulder  that  the  boat  gave 


THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  3 

a  surprised  flounce  out  of  its  straight  course, 
and  the  old  skipper,  who  was  carefully  in 
specting  the  meagre  contents  of  the  mail- 
bag,  nearly  lost  his  big  silver  spectacles 
overboard.  It  would  have  been  a  strange 
and  awesome  calamity.  There  were  no  new 
ones  to  be  bought  within  seven  miles. 

"  Did  a  flaw  strike  her  ?  "  asked  Jabez 
Pennell,  who  looked  curiously  at  the  sky 
and  sea  and  then  at  his  passenger.  "  I ' ve 
known  of  a  porpus  h'isting  a  boat,  or  mought 
be  you  kind  o'  shifted  the  rudder  ?  " 

Whereupon  they  both  laughed ;  the  pas 
senger  with  a  brilliant  smile  and  indescrib 
ably  merry  sound,  and  the  old  postmaster 
with  a  mechanical  grimace  of  the  face  and  a 
rusty  chuckle ;  then  he  turned  to  his  letters 
again,  and  adjusted  the  rescued  spectacles 
to  his  weather-beaten  nose.  He  thought  the 
stranger,  though  a  silent  young  man,  was  a 
friendly  sort  of  chap,  boiling  over  with  fun, 
as  it  were  ;  whereas  he  was  really  a  little 
morose  —  so  much  for  Jabez's  knowledge 
of  human  nature.  "  Feels  kind  o'  strange, 
't  is  likely ;  that 's  better  than  one  o'  your 
forrard  kind,"  mused  Jabez,  who  took  the 
visitor  for  one  of  the  rare  specimens  of 
commercial  travelers  who  sometimes  visited 


4  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

John's  Island  —  to  little  purpose  it  must  be 
confessed.  The  postmaster  cunningly  con 
cealed  the  fact  that  he  kept  the  only  store 
on  John's  Island  ;  he  might  as  well  get  his 
pay  for  setting  the  stranger  across  the  bay, 
and  it  was  nobody's  business  to  pry  into 
what  he  wanted  when  he  got  there.  So 
Jabez  gave  another  chuckle,  and  could  not 
help  looking  again  at  the  canvas  -  covered 
gun  case  with  its  neat  straps,  and  the  well- 
packed  portmanteau  that  lay  alongside  it  in 
the  bows. 

"  I  suppose  I  can  find  some  place  to  stay 
in  overnight  ?  "  asked  the  stranger,  presently. 

"  Do'  know 's  you  can,  I  'm  sure,"  replied 
Mr.  Pennell.  "There  ain't  no  reg'lar 
boarding  places  onto  John's  Island.  Folks 
keep  to  theirselves  pretty  much." 

"  I  suppose  money  is  of  some  object  ? " 
gently  inquired  the  passenger. 

"Waal,  yes,"  answered  Jabez,  without 
much  apparent  certainty.  "  Yes,  John's  Isl 
and  folks  ain't  above  nippin'  an'  squeezin' 
to  get  the  best  of  a  bargain.  They  're  pretty 
much  like  the  rest  o'  the  human  race,  an' 
want  money,  whether  they  've  got  any  use 
for  it  or  not.  Take  it  in  cold  weather,  when 
you've  got  pork  enough  and  potatoes  and 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  5 

them  things  in  your  sullar,  an'  it  blows  an' 
freezes  so  't  ain't  wuth  while  to  go  out,  'most 
all  that  money  's  good  for  is  to  set  an'  look 
at.  Now  I  need  to  have  more  means  than 
most  on  'em,"  continued  the  speaker,  plain 
tively,  as  if  to  excuse  himself  for  any  ru 
mor  of  his  grasping  ways  which  might  have 
reached  his  companion.  "  Keeping  store  as 
I  do,  I  have  to  handle  "  —  But  here  he 
stopped  short,  conscious  of  having  taken  a 
wrong  step.  However,  they  were  more  than 
half  across  now,  and  the  mail  was  overdue ; 
he  would  not  be  forced  into  going  back  when 
it  was  ascertained  that  he  refused  to  even 
look  at  any  samples. 

But  the  passenger  took  no  notice  of  the 
news  that  he  was  sailing  with  the  chief  and 
only  merchant  of  John's  Island,  and  even 
turned  slowly  to  look  back  at  the  shore  they 
had  left,  far  away  now,  and  fast  growing 
dim  on  the  horizon.  John's  Island  was,  on 
the  contrary,  growing  more  distinct,  and 
there  were  some  smaller  fragments  of  land 
near  it ;  on  one  he  could  already  distinguish 
a  flock  of  sheep  that  moved  slowly  down  a 
barren  slope.  It  was  amazing  that  they 
found  food  enough  all  summer  in  that  nar 
row  pasture.  The  suggestion  of  winter  in 


6  THE  KING    OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

this  remote  corner  of  the  world  gave  Frank 
fort  a  feeling  of  deep  pity  for  the  sheep,  as 
well  as  for  all  the  other  inhabitants.  Yet 
it  was  worth  a  cheerless  year  to  come  occa 
sionally  to  such  weather  as  this ;  and  he 
filled  his  lungs  again  and  again  with  the 
delicious  air  blown  to  him  from  the  inland 
country  of  bayberry  and  fir  balsams  across 
the  sparkling  salt-water.  The  fresh  north 
west  wind  carried  them  straight  on  their 
course,  and  the  postmaster's  passenger  could 
not  have  told  himself  why  he  was  going  to 
John's  Island,  except  that  when  he  had  ap 
parently  come  to  the  end  of  everything  on 
an  outreaching  point  of  the  main-land,  he 
had  found  that  there  was  still  a  settlement 
beyond  —  John's  Island,  twelve  miles  dis 
tant,  and  communication  would  be  that  day 
afforded.  "  Sheep  farmers  and  fishermen  — 
a  real  old-fashioned  crowd,"  he  had  been 
told.  It  was  odd  to  go  with  the  postmaster  : 
perhaps  he  was  addressed  by  fate  to  some 
human  being  who  expected  him.  Yes,  he 
would  find  out  what  could  be  done  for  the 
John's-Islanders ;  then  a  wave  of  defeat 
seemed  to  chill  his  desire.  It  was  better  to 
let  them  work  toward  what  they  needed  and 
wanted  ;  besides,  "  the  gift  without  the  giver 


THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  7 

were  dumb."  Though  after  all  it  would  be 
a  kind  of  satisfaction  to  take  a  poor  little 
neighborhood  under  one's  wing,  and  make 
it  presents  of  books  and  various  enlighten 
ments.  It  would  n't  be  a  bad  thing  to  send 
it  a  Punch  and  Judy  show,  or  a  panorama. 

"  May  I  ask  your  business  ?  "  interrupted 
Jabez  Pennell,  to  whom  the  long  silence  was 
a  little  oppressive. 

"  I  am  a  sportsman,"  responded  John 
Frankfort,  the  partner  in  a  flourishing  pri 
vate  bank,  and  the  merchant-postmaster's 
face  drooped  with  disappointment.  No  bar 
gains,  then,  but  perhaps  a  lucrative  boarder 
for  a  week  or  two ;  and  Jabez  instantly  re 
solved  that  for  not  a  cent  less  than  a  dollar 
a  day  should  this  man  share  the  privileges 
and  advantages  of  his  own  food  and  lodg 
ing.  Two  dollars  a  week  being  the  cur 
rent  rate  among  John's-Islanders,  it  will  be 
easily  seen  that  Mr.  Pennell  was  a  man  of 
far-seeing  business  enterprise. 

II. 

On  shore,  public  attention  was  beginning 
to  centre  upon  the  small  white  sail  that  was 
crossing  the  bay.  At  the  landing  there  was 


8 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 


at  first  no  human  being  to  be  seen,  unless 
one  had  sharp  eyes  enough  to  detect  the  sal 
low,  unhappy  countenance  of  the  postmas 
ter's  wife.  She  sat  at  the  front  kitchen 
window  of  the  low-storied  farm-house  that 
was  perched  nearly  at  the  top  of  a  long 
green  slope.  The  store,  of  which  the  post- 
office  department  was  a  small  fraction,  stood 
nearer  the  water,  at  the  head  of  the  little 
harbor.  It  was  a  high,  narrow,  smartly 
painted  little  building,  and  looked  as  if  it 
had  strayed  from  some  pretentious  inland 
village,  but  the  tumble-down  shed  near  by 
had  evidently  been  standing  for  many  years, 
and  was  well  acquainted  with  the  fish  busi 
ness.  The  landing-place  looked  still  more 
weather-beaten ;  its  few  timbers  were  bar 
nacled  and  overgrown  with  sea-weeds  below 
high-water  mark,  and  the  stone-work  was 
rudely  put  together.  There  was  a  litter  of 
drift-wood,  of  dilapidated  boats  and  empty 
barrels  and  broken  lobster  pots,  and  a  little 
higher  on  the  shore  stood  a  tar  kettle,  and, 
more  prominent  still,  a  melancholy  pair 
of  high  chaise  wheels,  with  their  thorough- 
braces  drawn  uncomfortably  tight  by  ex 
posure  to  many  seasonings  of  relentless 
weather. 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  9 

The  tide  was  high,  and  on  this  sheltered 
side  of  the  island  the  low  waves  broke  with 
a  quick,  fresh  sound,  and  moved  the  pebbles 
gently  on  the  narrow  beach.  The  sun  looked 
more  and  more  golden  red,  and  all  the  shore 
was  glowing  with  color.  The  faint  redden 
ing  tinge  of  some  small  oaks  among  the 
hemlocks  farther  up  the  island  shore,  the 
pale  green  and  primrose  of  a  group  of 
birches,  were  all  glorified  with  the  brilliant 
contrast  of  the  sea  and  the  shining  of  the 
autumn  sky.  Even  the  green  pastures  and 
browner  fields  looked  as  if  their  covering 
had  been  changed  to  some  richer  material, 
like  velvet,  so  soft  and  splendid  they  looked. 
High  on  a  barren  pasture  ridge  that  shel 
tered  the  landing  on  its  seaward  side  the 
huckleberry  bushes  had  been  brightened  with 
a  touch  of  carmine.  Coming  toward  John's 
Island  one  might  be  reminded  of  some  dull 
old  picture  that  had  been  cleansed  and  wet, 
all  its  colors  were  suddenly  grown  so  clear 
and  gay. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  two  men  ap 
peared  from  different  quarters  of  the  shore, 
and  without  apparently  taking  any  notice  of 
each  other,  even  by  way  of  greeting,  they 
seated  themselves  side  by  side  on  a  worm- 


10  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

eaten  piece  of  ship  timber  near  the  tar  pot. 
In  a  few  minutes  a  third  resident  of  the 
island  joined  them,  coming  over  the  high 
pasture  slope,  and  looking  for  one  moment 
giant-like  against  the  sky. 

"  Jabez  need  n't  grumble  to-day  on  account 
o'  no  head-wind,"  said  one  of  the  first  com 
ers.  "I  was  mendin'  a  piece  o'  wall  that 
was  overset,  an'  I  see  him  all  of  a  sudden, 
most  inshore.  My  woman  has  been  expect 
ing  a  letter  from  her  brother's  folks  in  Cas- 
tine.  I  s'pose  ye  've  heard  ?  They  was  all 
down  with  the  throat  distemper  last  we  knew 
about  'em,  an'  she  was  dreadful  put  about 
because  she  got  no  word  by  the  last  mail. 
Lor',  now  wa'n't  it  just  like  Jabe's  con- 
trairiness  to  go  over  in  that  fussin'  old  dory 
o'  his  with  no  sail  to  speak  of  ?  " 

"  Would  n't  have  took  him  half  the  time 
in  his  cat-boat,"  grumbled  the  elder  man  of 
the  three.  "Thinks  he  can  do  as  he's  a 
mind  to,  an'  we  Ve  got  to  make  the  best 
on 't.  Ef  I  was  postmaster  I  should  look 
out,  fust  thing,  for  an  abler  boat  nor  any 
he  's  got.  He 's  gittin  nearer  every  year, 
Jabe  is." 

"  'T  ain't  f a'r  to  the  citizens,"  said  the 
first  speaker.  "  Don't  git  no  mail  but  twice 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  11 

a  week  anyhow,  an'  then  he  Fiters  round 
long 's  he  's  a  mind  to,  dickeriii'  an'  spoutin' 
politics  over  to  the  Foreside.  Folks  may  be 
layin'  dyin',  an'  there  's  all  kinds  o'  urgent 
letters  that  ought  to  be  in  owners'  hands 
direct.  Jabe  need  n't  think  we  mean  to  put 
up  with  him  f 'rever  ;  "  and  the  irate  islander, 
who  never  had  any  letters  at  all  from  one 
year's  end  to  another's  looked  at  both  his 
companions  for  their  assent. 

"  Don't  ye  git  riled  so,  Dan'el,"  softly  re 
sponded  the  last-comer,  a  grizzled  little  fish 
erman-farmer,  who  looked  like  a  pirate,  and 
was  really  the  most  amiable  man  on  John's 
Island  —  "  don't  ye  git  riled.  I  don'  know 
as,  come  to  the  scratch,  ary  one  of  us  would 
want  to  make  two  trips  back  an'  forrard 
every  week  the  year  round  for  a  hunderd 
an*  twenty  dollars.  Take  it  in  them  high 
December  seas,  now,  an'  'long  in  Jenoary 
an'  March.  Course  he  accommodates  him 
self,  an'  it  comes  in  the  way  o'  his  business, 
an'  he  gits  a  passenger  now  an'  then.  Well, 
it  all  counts  up,  I  s'pose." 

"  There 's  somebody  or  'nother  aboard 
now,"  said  the  opponent.  "  They  may 
have  sent  over  for  our  folks  from  Castine. 
They  was  headin'  on  to  be  dangerous,  three 


12  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

o  the  child'n  and  WashVton  himself.  I 
may  have  to  go  up  to-night.  Dare  say 
they  've  sent  a  letter  we  ain't  got.  Darn 
that  Jabe !  I  've  heard  before  now  of  his 
looking  over  everything  in  the  bag  comin' 
over  —  sortin'  he  calls  it,  to  save  time  —  but 
't  would  n't  be  no  wonder  ef  a  letter  blowed 
out  o'  his  fingers  now  an'  again." 

"  There  's  King  George  a-layin'  off,  ain't 
he  ?  "  asked  the  peace-maker,  who  was  whit 
tling  a  piece  of  dry  kelp  stalk  that  he  had 
picked  up  from  the  pebbles,  and  all  three 
men  took  a  long  look  at  the  gray  sail  beyond 
the  moorings. 

"  What  a  curi's  critter  that  is !  "  ex 
claimed  one  of  the  group.  "  I  suppose,  now, 
nothin  's  goin'  to  tempt  him  to  set  foot  on 
John's  Island  long's  he  lives  —  do  you?" 
but  nobody  answered. 

"  Don'  know  who  he  'a  spitin'  but  himself," 
said  the  peace-maker."  I  was  underrunning 
my  trawl  last  week,  an'  he  come  by  with 
his  fare  o'  fish,  an'  hove  to  to  see  what  I 
was  gittin'.  Me  and  King  George  's  al'a's 
kind  o'  fellowshiped  a  little  by  spells.  I 
was  off  to  the  Banks,  you  know,  that  time 
he  had  the  gran'  flare  up  an'  took  himself 
off,  an'  so  he  ain't  counted  me  one  o'  his 


enemies." 


THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  13 

"  I  always  give  ray  vote  that  he  wa'n't  in 
his  right  mind  ;  't  wa'n't  all  ugliness,  now. 
I  went  to  school  with  him,  an'  he  was  a 
clever  boy  as  there  was,"  said  the  elder  man, 
who  had  hardly  spoken  before.  "  I  never 
more  'n  half  blamed  him,  however  't  was, 
an'  it  kind  o'  rankled  me  that  he  should  ha' 
been  drove  off  an'  outlawed  hisself  this  way. 
'T  was  Jabe  Pennell ;  he  thought  George 
was  stan'in'  in  his  light  'bout  the  postmas- 
tership,  an'  he  worked  folks  up,  an'  set  'em 
agin  him.  George's  mother's  folks  did  have 
a  kind  of  a  punky  spot  somewhere  in  their 
heads,  but  he  never  give  no  sign  o'  anything 
till  Jabe  Pennell  begun  to  hunt  him  an'  dare 
him." 

"  Well,  he  's  done  a  good  thing  senee  he 
bought  Folly  Island.  I  hear  say  King 
George  is  gittin'  rich,"  said  the  peaceful 
pirate.  "  'T  was  a  hard  thing  for  his  folks, 
his  wife  an'  the  girl.  I  think  he 's  been 
more  scattery  sence  his  wife  died,  anyway. 
Darn !  how  lonesome  they  must  be  in  win 
ter  !  I  should  think  they  'd  be  afeared  a 
sea  would  break  right  over  'em.  Pol'tics  be 
hanged,  I  say,  that  '11  drive  a  man  to  do  such 
things  as  them  —  never  step  foot  on  any 
land  but  his  own  agin !  I  tell  ye  we  've  each 
on  us  got  rights." 


14  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  JSLAND. 

This  was  unusual  eloquence  and  excite 
ment  on  the  speaker's  part,  and  his  neigh 
bors  stole  a  furtive  look  at  him  and  then  at 
each  other.  He  was  an  own  cousin  to  King 
George  Quint,  the  recluse  owner  of  Folly 
Island  —  an  isolated  bit  of  land  several 
miles  farther  seaward  —  and  one  of  the  lis 
teners  reflected  that  this  relationship  must 
be  the  cause  of  his  bravery. 

The  post-boat  was  nearly  in  now,  and  the 
three  men  rose  and  went  down  to  the  water's 
edge.  The  sail  was  furled,  and  the  old  dory 
slipped  about  uneasily  on  the  low  waves. 
The  postmaster  was  greeted  by  friendly 
shouts  from  his  late  maligners,  but  he  was 
unnecessarily  busy  with  his  sail  and  with  his 
packages  amidships,  and  took  his  time,  as 
at  least  one  spectator  grumbled,  about  com 
ing  in.  King  George  had  also  lowered  his 
sail  and  taken  to  his  oars,  but  just  as  he 
would  have  been  alongside,  the  postmaster 
caught  up  his  own  oars,  and  pulled  smartly 
toward  the  landing.  This  proceeding  stim 
ulated  his  pursuer  to  a  stern-chase,  and  pres 
ently  the  boats  were  together,  but  Pennell 
pushed  straight  on  through  the  low  waves 
to  the  strand,  and  his  pursuer  lingered  just 
outside,  took  in  his  oars,  and  dropped  his 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  15 

killock  over  the  bow.  He  knew  perfectly 
well  that  the  representative  of  the  govern 
ment  would  go  ashore  and  take  all  the  time 
he  could  to  sort  the  contents  of  the  mail-bag 
in  his  place  of  business.  It  would  even  be 
good  luck  if  he  did  not  go  home  to  supper 
first,  and  keep  everybody  waiting  all  the 
while.  Sometimes  his  constituents  had 
hailed  him  from  their  fishing-boats  on  the 
high  seas,  and  taken  their  weekly  newspaper 
over  the  boat's  side,  but  it  was  only  in  mo 
ments  -of  great  amiability  or  forgetfulness 
that  the  King  of  Folly  Island  was  so  kindly 
served.  This  was  tyranny  pure  and  simple. 
But  what  could  be  done?  So  was  winter 
cold,  and  so  did  the  dog-fish  spoil  the  trawls. 
Even  the  John's-Islanders  needed  a  fearless 
patriot  to  lead  them  to  liberty. 

The  three  men  on  the  strand  and  King 
George  from  the  harbor  were  all  watching 
with  curious  eyes  the  stranger  who  had 
crossed  in  Jabez  Pennell's  boat.  He  was 
deeply  interested  in  them  also  ;  but  at  that 
moment  such  a  dazzling  glow  of  sunlight 
broke  from  the  cloud  in  the  west  that  Frank 
fort  turned  away  to  look  at  the  strange,  re 
mote  landscape  that  surrounded  him.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  taken  a  step  backward  into 


16  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

an  earlier  age  —  these  men  had  the  look  of 
pioneers  or  of  colonists  —  yet  the  little 
country-side  showed  marks  of  long  occu 
pancy.  He  had  really  got  to  the  outer 
boundary  of  civilization. 

"  Now  it 's  too  bad  o'  you,  Jabez,  to  keep 
George  Quint  a-waitin',"  deprecated  the 
peace-maker.  "  He 's  got  a  good  ways  to  go 
'way  over  to  Folly  Island,  an'  like  's  not  he 
means  to  underrun  his  trawl  too.  We  all 
expected  ye  sooner  with  this  fair  wind." 
At  which  the  postmaster  gave  an  unintelli 
gible  growl. 

"  This  'ere  passenger  was  comin'  over, 
calc'latin'  to  stop  a  spell,  an'  wants  to  be 
accommodated,"  he  announced  presently. 

But  one  of  the  group  on  the  strand  inter 
rupted  him.  He  was  considered  the  wag  of 
that  neighborhood.  "  Ever  b'en  to  Folly 
Island,  stranger?"  he  asked,  with  great 
civility.  "  There's  the  King  of  it,  layin' 
off  in  his  boat.  George !  "  he  called  lustily, 
"  I  want  to  know  ef  you  can't  put  up  a 
trav'ler  that  wants  to  view  these  parts  o' 
the  airth  ?  " 

Frankfort  somehow  caught  the  spirit  of 
the  occasion,  and  understood  that  there  was 
a  joke  underlying  this  request.  Folly  Isl- 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  17 

and  had  an  enticing  sound,  and  he  listened 
eagerly  for  the  answer.  It  was  well  known 
by  everybody  except  himself  that  Jabez  Pen- 
nell  monopolized  the  entertainment  of  the 
traveling  public,  and  King  George  roared 
back,  delightedly,  that  he  would  do  the  best 
he  could  on  short  notice,  and  pulled  his  boat 
farther  in.  Frankfort  made  ready  to  trans 
fer  his  luggage,  and  laughed  again  with  the 
men  on  the  shore.  He  was  not  sorry  to 
have  a  longer  voyage  in  that  lovely  sunset 
light,  and  the  hospitality  of  John's  Island, 
already  represented  by  these  specimens  of 
householders,  was  not  especially  alluring. 
Jabez  Pennell  was  grumbling  to  himself, 
and  turned  to  go  to  the  store.  King  George 
reminded  him  innocently  of  some  groceries 
which  he  had  promised  to  have  ready,  and 
always  fearful  of  losing  one  of  his  few  cus 
tomers,  he  nodded  and  went  his  way.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  strange  combination  of  de 
pendence  and  animosity  between  the  men. 
The  King  followed  his  purveyor  with  a 
blasting  glance  of  hatred,  and  turned  his 
boat,  and  held  it  so  that  Frankfort  could 
step  in  and  reach  back  afterward  for  his 
possessions. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Pennell  returned 


18  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

with  some  packages  and  a  handful  of  news 
papers. 

"  Have  ye  put  in  the  cough  drops  ?  "  asked 
the  fisherman,  gruffly,  and  was  answered  by 
a  nod  of  the  merchant's  head. 

"Bring  them  haddick  before  Thu'sday," 
he  commanded  the  island  potentate,  who 
was  already  setting  his  small  sail. 

The  wind  had  freshened.  They  slid  out 
of  the  bay,  and  presently  the  figures  on  the 
shore  grew  indistinct,  and  Frankfort  found 
himself  outward  bound  on  a  new  tack  toward 
a  low  island  several  miles  away.  It  seemed 
to  be  at  considerable  distance  from  any 
other  land  ;  the  light  of  the  sun  was  full 
upon  it.  Now  he  certainly  was  as  far  away 
as  he  could  get  from  city  life  and  the  busy 
haunts  of  men.  He  wondered  at  the  curious 
chain  of  circumstances  that  he  had  followed 
that  day.  This  man  looked  like  a  hermit, 
and  really  lived  in  the  outermost  island  of 
all. 

Frankfort  grew  more  and  more  amused 
with  the  novel  experiences  of  the  day.  He 
had  wished  for  a  long  time  to  see  these 
Maine  islands  for  himself.  A  week  at 
Mount  Desert  had  served  to  make  him  very 
impatient  of  the  imported  society  of  that  re- 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  19 

nowned  watering-place,  so  incongruous  with 
the  native  simplicity  and  quiet.  There  was 
a  serious  look  to  the  dark  forests  and  bleak 
rocks  that  seemed  to  have  been  broken  into 
fragments  by  some  convulsion  of  nature,  and 
scattered  in  islands  and  reefs  along  the 
coast.  A  strange  population  clung  to  these 
isolated  bits  of  the  world,  and  it  was  reward 
ing  to  Frankfort's  sincere  interest  in  such 
individualized  existence  that  he  should  now 
be  brought  face  to  face  with  it. 

The  boat  sailed  steadily.  A  colder  air, 
like  the  very  breath  of  the  great  sea,  met 
the  voyagers  presently.  Two  or  three  light 
house  lamps  flashed  out  their  first  pale  rays 
like  stars,  and  evening  had  begun.  Yet 
there  was  still  a  soft  glow  of  color  over  the 
low  seaboard.  The  western  sky  was  slow 
to  fade,  and  the  islands  looked  soft  and 
mirage-like  in  the  growing  gloom.  Frank 
fort  found  himself  drifting  away  into  dreams 
as  if  he  were  listening  to  music  ;  there  was 
something  lulling  in  the  motion  of  the  boat. 
As  for  the  King,  he  took  no  notice  of  his 
passenger,  fcut  steered  with  an  oar  and 
tended  the  sheet  and  hummed  a  few  notes 
occasionally  of  some  quaint  minor  tune, 
which  must  have  been  singing  itself  more 


20  THE  KING   OF  FOL  L  Y '  ISL;  ND. 

plainly  to  his  own  consciousness.'  The  stran 
ger  waked  from  hip,  reverie  bei  ire  very  long, 
and  observed  vnth  delight  tr  it  the  man  be 
fore  him.  had  a  most  interesting  face,  a  nobly 
moulded  forehead,  and  brave,  commanding 
eyes.  There  was  truly  an  air  of  distinction 
and  dignity  about  this  King  of  Folly  Island, 
an  uncommon  directness  and  independence. 
He  was  the  son  and  heir  of  the  old  Vikings 
who  had  sailed  that  stormy  coast  and  dis 
covered  its  harborage  and  its  vines  five 
hundred  years  before  Columbus  was  born 
in  Italy,  or  was  beggar  to  the  surly  lords 
and  gentlemen  of  Spain. 

The  silence  was  growing  strange,  and  pro 
voking  curiosity  between  the  new-made  host 
and  guest,  and  Frankfort  asked  civilly  some 
question  about  the  distance.  The  King 
turned  to  look  at  him  with  surprise,  as  if  he 
had  forgotten  his  companionship.  The  dis 
covery  seemed  to  give  him  pleasure,  and  he 
answered,  in  a  good  clear  voice,  with  a  true 
fisherman's  twang  and  brogue :  "  We  're 
more  'n  half  there.  Be  you  cold  ? "  And 
Frankfort  confessed  to  a  stray* shiver  now 
and  then,  which  seemed  to  inspire  a  more 
friendly  relationship  in  the  boat's  crew. 
Quick  as  thought,  the  King  pulled  off  his 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  21 

own  rough  coat  and  wrapped  it  about  the 
shoulders  of  the  paler  city  man.  Then  he 
stepped  forward  along  the  boat,  after  hand 
ing  the  oar  to  his  companion,  and  busied 
himself  ostentatiously  with  a  rope,  with  the 
packages  that  he  had  bought  from  Pennell. 
One  would  have  thought  he  had  freed  him 
self  from  his  coat  merely  as  a  matter  of  con 
venience  ;  and  Frankfort,  who  was  not  a 
little  touched  by  the  kindness,  paid  his  new 
sovereign  complete  deference.  George  Quint 
was  evidently  a  man  whom  one  must  be  very 
careful  about  thanking,  however,  and  there 
was  another  time  of  silence. 

"  I  hope  my  coming  will  not  make  any 
trouble  in  your  family,"  ventured  the  stran 
ger,  after  a  little  while. 

"  Bless  ye,  no  !  "  replied  the  host.  "  There 
's  only  Phebe,  my  daughter,  and  nothing 
would  please  her  better  than  somebody  extra 
to  do  for.  She  's  dreadful  folksy  for  a  girl 
that  's  hed  to  live  alone  on  a  far  island, 
Phebe  is.  'T  ain't  every  one  I  'd  pick  to 
carry  home,  though,"  said  the  King,  mag 
nificently.  "  'T  has  been  my  plan  to  keep 
clear  o'  humans  much  as  could  be.  I  had 
my  fill  o'  the  John's-Islanders  a  good  while 
ago." 


22  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

"  Hard  to  get  on  with  ? "  asked  the  lis 
tener,  humoring  the  new  tone  which  his  ears 
had  caught. 

"  I  could  get  on  with  'em  ef  't  was  any 
ways  wuth  while,"  responded  the  island 
chieftain.  "  I  did  n't  see  why  there  was  any 
need  o'  being  badgered  and  nagged  all  my 
days  by  a  pack  o'  curs  like  them  John's-Isl- 
anders.  They  'd  hunt  ye  to  death  if  ye  was 
anyways  their  master ;  and  I  got  me  a  piece 
o'  land  as  far  off  from  'em  as  I  could  buy, 
and  here  I  be.  I  ain't  stepped  foot  on  any 
man's  land  but  my  own  these  twenty-six 
years.  Ef  anybody  wants  to  deal  with  me, 
he  must  come  to  the  water's  edge." 

The  speaker's  voice  trembled  with  excite 
ment,  and  Frankfort  was  conscious  of  a 
strange  sympathy  and  exhilaration. 

"  But  why  did  n't  you  go  ashore  and  live 
on  the  main-land,  out  of  the  way  of  such 
neighbors  altogether?"  he  asked,  and  was 
met  by  a  wondering  look. 

"  I  did  n't  belong  there,"  replied  the  King, 
as  if  the  idea  had  never  occurred  to  him  be 
fore.  "  I  had  my  living  to  get.  It  took  me 
more  than  twelve  years  to  finish  paying  for 
my  island,  besides  what  hard  money  I  laid 
down.  Some  years  the  fish  is  mighty  shy. 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  23 

I  always  had  an  eye  to  the  island  sence  I 
was  a  boy  ;  and  we  've  been  better  off  here, 
as  I  view  it.  I  was  some  sorry  my  woman 
should  be  so  fur  from  her  folks  when  she  was 
down  with  her  last  sickness." 

The  sail  was  lowered  suddenly,  and  the 
boat  rose  and  fell  on  the  long  waves  near 
the  floats  of  a  trawl,  which  Quint  pulled 
over  the  bows,  slipping  the  long  line  by  with 
its  empty  hooks  until  he  came  to  a  small 
haddock,  which  he  threw  behind  him  to  flop 
and  beat  itself  about  at  Frankfort's  feet  as 
if  imploring  him  not  to  eat  it  for  his  supper. 
Then  the  sprit-sail  was  hoisted  again,  and 
they  voyaged  toward  Folly  Island  slowly 
with  a  failing  breeze.  The  King  stamped 
his  feet,  and  even  struck  his  arms  together 
as  if  they  were  chilled,  but  took  no  notice 
of  the  coat  which  his  guest  had  taken  off 
again  a  few  minutes  before.  To  Frankfort 
the  evening  was  growing  mild,  and  his  blood 
rushed  through  his  veins  with  a  delicious 
thrill.  The  island  loomed  high  and  black, 
as  if  it  were  covered  with  thick  woods  ;  but 
there  was  a  light  ashore  in  the  window  of  a 
small  house,  and  presently  the  pilgrim  found 
himself  safe  on  land,  quite  stiff  in  his  legs, 
but  very  serene  in  temper.  A  brisk  little 


24  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

dog  leaped  about  him  with  clamorous  barks, 
a  large  gray  cat  also  appeared  belligerent 
and  curious ;  then  a  voice  came  from  the 
doorway  :  "  Late,  ain't  you,  father?  " 

Without  a  word  of  reply,  the  King  of 
that  isle  led  the  way  to  his  castle,  haddock 
in  hand.  Frankfort  and  the  dog  and  cat 
followed  after.  Before  they  reached  the 
open  door,  the  light  shone  out  upon  a  little 
wilderness  of  bright  flowers,  yellow  and  red 
and  white.  The  King  stepped  carefully  up 
the  narrow  pathway,  and  waited  on  the  step 
for  his  already  loyal  subject  to  enter. 

"  Phebe,"  he  said,  jokingly,  "  I  Ve  brought 
ye  some  company  —  a  gentleman  from  Lord 
knows  where,  who  could  n't  seem  to  content 
himself  without  seeing  Folly  Island." 

Phebe  stepped  forward  with  great  shyness, 
but  perfect  appreciation  of  the  right  thing 
to  be  done.  "  I  give  you  welcome,"  she 
said,  quietly,  and  offered  a  thin  affectionate 
hand.  She  was  very  plain  in  her  looks,  with 
a  hard-worked,  New  England  plainness,  but 
as  Frankfort  stood  in  the  little  kitchen  he 
was  immediately  conscious  of  a  peculiar  del 
icacy  and  refinement  in  his  surroundings. 
There  was  an  atmosphere  in  this  out-of-the- 
way  corner  of  civilization  that  he  missed  in 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  25 

all  but  a  few  of  the  best  houses  he  had  ever 
known. 

The  ways  of  the  Folly  Island  housekeep 
ing  were  too  well  established  to  be  thrown 
out  of  their  course  by  even  so  uncommon 
an  event  as  the  coming  of  a  stranger.  The 
simple  supper  was  eaten,  and  Frankfort  was 
ready  for  his  share  of  it.  He  was  touched 
at  the  eagerness  of  his  hostess  to  serve  him, 
at  her  wistful  questioning  of  her  father  to 
learn  whom  he  had  seen  and  what  he  had 
heard  that  day.  There  was  no  actual  exile 
in  the  fisherman's  lot  after  all ;  he  met  his 
old  acquaintances  almost  daily  on  the  fish 
ing  grounds,  and  it  was  upon  the  women  of 
the  household  that  an  unmistakable  burden 
of  isolation  had  fallen.  Sometimes  a  man 
lived  with  them  for  a  time  to  help  cultivate 
the  small  farm,  but  Phebe  was  skilled  in 
out-door  handicrafts.  She  could  use  tools 
better  than  her  father,  the  guest  was  told 
proudly,  and  that  day  she  had  been  digging 
potatoes  —  a  great  pleasure  evidently,  as 
anything  would  have  been  that  kept  one  out- 
of-doors  in  the  sunshiny  field. 

When  the  supper  was  over,  the  father 
helped  his  daughter  to  clear  away  the  table 
as  simply  and  fondly  as  could  be,  and  as  if 


26  THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

it  were  as  much  his  duty  as  hers.  It  was 
very  evident  that  the  cough  drops  were  for 
actual  need ;  the  poor  girl  coughed  now  and 
then  with  a  sad  insistence  and  hollowness. 
She  looked  ill  already,  so  narrow-chested 
and  bent-shoulderedy  while  a  bright  spot  of 
color  flickered  in  her  thin  cheeks.  She  had 
seemed  even  elderly  to  Frankfort  when  he 
first  saw  her,  but  he  discovered  from  some 
thing  that  was  said  that  her  age  was  much 
less  than  his  own.  What  a  dreary  lifetime ! 
he  thought,  and  then  reproached  himself, 
for  he  had  never  seen  a  happier  smile  than 
poor  Phebe  gave  her  father  at  that  moment. 
The  father  was  evidently  very  anxious  about 
the  cough ;  he  started  uneasily  at  every  rep 
etition  of  it,  with  a  glance  at  his  guest's  face 
to  see  if  he  also  were  alarmed  by  the  forebod 
ing.  The  wind  had  risen  again,  and  whined 
in  the  chimney.  The  pine-trees  near  the  house 
and  the  wind  and  sea  united  in  a  solemn, 
deep  sound  which  affected  the  new-comer 
strangely.  Above  this  undertone  was  the  les 
ser,  sharper  noise  of  waves  striking  the  pebbly 
beach  and  retreating.  There  was  a  loneliness, 
a  remoteness,  a  feeling  of  being  an  infinites 
imal  point  in  such  a  great  expanse  of  sea 
and  stormy  sky,  that  was  almost  too  heavy 


THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  27 

to  be  borne.  Phebe  knitted  steadily,  with 
an  occasional  smile  at  her  own  thoughts. 
The  tea-kettle  sang  and  whistled  away ;  its 
cover  clicked  now  and  then  as  if  with  hardly 
suppressed  cheerfulness,  and  the  King  of 
Folly  Island  read  his  newspaper  diligently, 
and  doled  out  bits  of  information  to  his  com 
panions.  Frankfort  was  surprised  at  the 
tenor  of  these.  The  reader  was  evidently  a 
man  of  uncommon  depth  of  thought  and 
unusual  common  -  sense.  It  was  both  less 
and  more  surprising  that  he  should  have 
chosen  to  live  alone  ;  one  would  imagine  that 
his  instinct  would  have  led  him  among  peo 
ple  of  his  own  sort.  It  was  no  wonder  that 
he  had  grown  impatient  of  such  society  as 
the  postmaster's  ;  but  at  this  point  of  his 
meditation  the  traveler's  eyes  began  to  feel 
strangely  heavy,  and  he  fell  asleep  in  his 
high-backed  rocking-chair.  What  peaceful- 
ness  had  circled  him  in  !  the  rush  and  clamor 
of  his  business  life  had  fallen  away  as  if  he 
had  begun  another  existence,  without  the 
fretful  troubles  of  this  present  world. 

"  He 's  a  pretty  man,"  whispered  Phebe 
to  her  father,  and  the  old  fisherman  nod 
ded  a  grave  assent,  and  folded  his  hands 
upon  the  county  newspaper  while  he  took  a 


28  THE  KING    OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

long  honest  look  at  the  stranger  within  his 
gates. 

The  next  morning  Frankfort  made  his 
appearance  in  the  kitchen  at  a  nobly  early 
hour,  to  find  that  the  master  of  the  house 
had  been  out  in  his  boat  since  four  o'clock, 
and  would  not  be  in  for  some  time  yet. 
Phebe  was  waiting  to  give  him  his  break 
fast,  and  soon  after  he  saw  her  going  to  the 
potato  field,  and  joined  her.  The  sun  was 
bright,  and  the  island  was  gay  with  color ; 
the  asters  were  in  their  best  pale  lavender 
and  royal  purple  tints  ;  the  bay  was  flecked 
with  sails  of  fishing-boats,  because  the  mack 
erel  had  again  struck  in ;  and  outside  the  isl 
and,  at  no  great  distance,  was  the  highway 
of  the  coasting  vessels  to  and  from  the  east 
ern  part  of  the  state  and  the  more  distant 
provinces.  There  were  near  two  hundred 
craft  in  sight,  great  and  small,  and  John 
Frankfort  dug  his  potatoes  with  intermittent 
industry  as  he  looked  off  east  and  west  at 
such  a  lovely  scene.  They  might  have  been 
an  abbe  galant  and  a  dignified  marquise, 
he  and  Phebe  —  it  did  not  matter  what 
work  they  toyed  with.  They  were  each 
filled  with  a  charming  devotion  to  the  other, 


THE  KING    OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  29 

a  grave  reverence  and  humoring  of  the  mu 
tual  desire  for  quiet  and  meditation.  Toward 
noon  the  fishing -boat  which  Phebe  had 
known  constantly  and  watched  with  affec 
tionate  interest  was  seen  returning  deep 
laden,  and  she  hastened  to  the  little  landing. 
Frankfort  had  already  expressed  his  disdain 
of  a  noonday  meal,  and  throwing  down  his 
hoe,  betook  himself  to  the  highest  point  of 
the  island.  Here  was  a  small  company  of 
hemlocks,  twisted  and  bent  by  the  northeast 
winds,  and  on  the  soft  brown  carpet  of  their 
short  pins,  our  pilgrim  to  the  outer  bounda 
ries  spent  the  middle  of  the  day.  A  strange 
drowsiness,  such  as  he  had  often  felt  before 
in  such  bracing  air,  seemed  to  take  posses 
sion  of  him,  and  to  a  man  who  had  been 
perplexing  himself  with  hard  business  prob 
lems  and  erratic  ventures  in  financiering, 
potato-digging  on  a  warm  September  day 


was  not  exciting. 


The  hemlocks  stood  alone  on  the  summit 
of  the  island,  and  must  have  been  a  land 
mark  for  the  King  to  steer  home  by.  Be 
fore  Frankfort  stretched  a  half-cleared  pas 
ture,  where  now  and  then,  as  he  lazily 
opened  his  eyes,  he  could  see  a  moving 
sheep's  back  among  the  small  birches  and 


30  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

fern  and  juniper.  Behind  him  were  the 
cleared  fields  and  the  house,  and  a  fringe  of 
forest  trees  stood  all  round  the  rocky  shore 
of  the  domain.  From  the  water  one  could 
not  see  that  there  was  such  a  well-arranged 
farm  on  Folly  Island  behind  this  barrier  of 
cedars,  but  the  inhabitants  of  that  region 
thriftily  counted  upon  the  natural  stockade 
to  keep  the  winter  winds  away. 

The  sun  had  changed  its  direction  alto 
gether  when  he  finally  waked,  and  shone 
broadly  down  upon  him  from  a  point  much 
nearer  the  western  horizon.  At  that  mo 
ment  the  owner  of  the  island  made  his  ap 
pearance,  looking  somewhat  solicitous. 

"  We  did  n't  know  what  had  become  of 
ye,  young  man,"  he  said,  in  a  fatherly  way. 
"  'T  ain't  nateral  for  ye  to  go  without  your 
dinner,  as  I  view  it.  We  '11  soon  hearten 
ye  up,  Phebe  an'  me  ;  though  she  don't  eat 
no  more  than  a  chippin'-sparrer,  Phebe 
don't,"  and  his  face  returned  to  its  sadder 
lines. 

"No,"  said  Frankfort;  "she  looks  very 
delicate.  Don't  you  think  it  might  be  bet 
ter  to  take  her  inland,  or  to  some  more  shel 
tered  place,  this  winter  ?  " 

The  question  was  asked  with  hesitation, 


THE  KING  OF  POLL  Y  ISLAND.     31 

but  the  speaker's  kind-heartedness  was  in  all 
his  words.  The  father  turned  away  and 
snapped  a  dry  hemlock  twig  with  impatient 
fingers. 

"  She  would  n't  go  withouten  me,"  he  an 
swered,  in  a  choked  voice,  "  an'  my  vow  is 
my  vow.  I  shall  never  set  foot  on  another 
man's  land  while  I  'm  alive." 

The  day  had  been  so  uneventful,  and 
Folly  Island  had  appeared  to  be  such  a 
calm,  not  to  say  prosaic  place,  that  its  vis 
itor  was  already  forgetting  the  thrill  of  in 
terest  with  which  he  had  first  heard  its 
name.  Here  again,  however,  was  the  un 
mistakable  tragic  element  in  the  life  of  the 
inhabitants  ;  this  man,  who  should  be  armed 
and  defended  by  his  common-sense,  was  yet 
made  weak  by  some  prejudice  or  supersti 
tion.  What  could  have  warped  him  in  this 
strange  way  ?  for,  indeed,  the  people  of  most 
unenlightened  communities  were  prone  to 
herd  together,  to  follow  each  other's  lead,  to 
need  a  dictator,  no  matter  how  much  they 
might  rebel  at  his  example  or  demands. 
This  city  gentleman  was  moved  by  a  deep 
curiosity  to  know  for  himself  the  laws  and 
charts  of  his  new-found  acquaintance's  ex 
istence  ;  he  had  never  felt  a  keener  interest 


32  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

in  a  first  day's  acquaintance  with  any  human 
being. 

"  Society  would  be  at  a  stand-still,"  he  said, 
with  apparent  lightness,  u  if  each  of  us  who 
found  his  neighbors  unsatisfactory  should 
strike  out  for  himself  as  you  have  done." 

The  King  of  Folly  Island  gave  a  long 
shrewd  look  at  his  companion,  who  was  still 
watching  the  mackerel  fleet ;  then  he  blushed 
like  a  girl  through  all  the  sea-changed  color 
of  his  cheeks. 

"  Look  out  for  number  one,  or  else  number 
two  's  got  to  look  out  for  you,"  he  said,  with 
some  uncertainty  in  the  tone  of  his  voice. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Frankfort,  smiling.  "  I 
have  repeated  that  to  myself  a  great  many 
times.  The  truth  is,  I  don't  belong  to  my 
neighbors  any  more  than  you  do." 

"  I  expect  that  you  have  got  a  better 
chance  nor  me ;  ef  I  had  only  been  started 
amon'st  Christians,  now !  "  exclaimed  Quint, 
with  gathering  fury  at  the  thought  of  his 
John's-Islanders. 

"  Human  nature  is  the  same  the  world 
over,"  said  the  guest,  quietly,  as  if  more  tt> 
himself  than  his  listener.  "  I  dare  say  thai 
the  fault  is  apt  to  be  our  own ; "  but  there 
was  no  response  to  this  audacious  opinion. 


THE  KING    OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  33 

Frankfort  had  risen  from  the  couch  of 
hemlock  pins,  and  the  two  men  walked 
toward  the  house  together.  The  cares  of 
modern  life  could  not  weigh  too  heavily  on 
such  a  day.  The  shining  sea,  the  white 
sails,  gleaming  or  gray-shadowed,  and  the 
dark  green  of  the  nearer  islands  made  a 
brilliant  picture,  and  the  younger  man  was 
impatient  with  himself  for  thinking  the 
armada  of  small  craft  a  parallel  to  the  finan 
cial  ventures  which  were  made  day  after  day 
in  city  life.  What  a  question  of  chance  it 
was,  after  all,  for  either  herring  or  dollars  — 
some  of  these  boats  were  sure  to  go  home 
disappointed,  or  worse,  at  night ;  but  at  this 
point  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  angrily  be 
cause  he  could  not  forget  some  still  unde 
cided  ventures  of  his  own.  How  degraded 
a  man  became  who  chose  to  be  only  a  money 
maker  !  The  zest  of  the  chase  for  wealth 
and  the  power  of  it  suddenly  seemed  a  very 
trivial  and  foolish  thing  to  Frankfort,  who 
confessed  anew  that  he  had  no  purpose  in 
making  his  gains. 

"  You  ain't  a  married  man  ;  live  a  bach- 
jlor  life,  don't  ye  ?  "  asked  the  King,  as  if 
;.n  recognition  of  these  thoughts,  and  Frank 
fort,  a  little  startled,  nodded  assent. 


34  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

"  Makes  it  a  sight  easier,"  was  the  unex 
pected  response.  "  You  don't  feel  as  if  you 
might  be  wronging  other  folks  when  you  do 
what  suits  you  best.  Now  my  woman  was 
wuth  her  weight  in  gold,  an'  she  lays  there 
in  the  little  yard  over  in  the  corner  of  the 
field  —  she  never  fought  me,  nor  argued  the 
p'int  again  after  she  found  I  was  sot,  but  it 
aged  her,  fetchin'  of  her  away  from  all  her 
folks,  an'  out  of  where  she  was  wonted.  I 
did  n't  foresee  it  at  the  time." 

There  was  something  martyr-like  and  he 
roic  in  the  exile's  appearance  as  he  spoke, 
and  his  listener  had  almost  an  admiration 
for  such  heroism,  until  he  reminded  himself 
that  this  withdrawal  from  society  had  been 
willful,  and,  so  far  as  he  knew,  .quite  selfish. 
It  could  not  be  said  that  Quint  had  stood  in 
his  lot  and  place  as  a  brave  man  should, 
unless  he  had  left  John's  Island  as  the  Pil 
grim  Fathers  left  England,  for  conscientious 
scruples  and  a  necessary  freedom.  How 
many  pilgrims  since  those  have  falsely  made 
the  same  plea  for  undeserved  liberty  ! 

"  What  was  your  object  in  coming  here  ?  " 
the  stranger  asked,  quietly,  as  if  he  had 
heard  no  reason  yet  that  satisfied  him. 

"  I  wanted  to  be   by   myself ;  "  and  the 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  35 

King  rallied  his  powers  of  eloquence  to 
make  excuses.  "I  wa'n't  one  that  could 
stand  them  folks  that  overlooked  an'  harried 
me,  an'  was  too  mean  to  live.  They  could 
go  their  way,  an'  I  mine  ;  I  would  n't  harm 
'em,  but  I  wanted  none  of  'em.  Here,  you 
see,  I  get  my  own  livin'.  I  raise  my  own 
hog,  an'  the  women-folks  have  more  hens 
than  they  want,  an'  I  keep  a  few  sheep 
a-runnin'  over  the  other  side  o'  the  place. 
The  fish  o'  the  sea  is  had  for  the  catchin', 
an'  I  owe  no  man  anything.  I  should  ha' 
b'en  beholden  if  I  'd  stopped  where  we  come 
from ; "  and  he  turned  with  an  air  of  tri 
umph  to  look  at  Frankfort,  who  glanced  at 
him  in  return  with  an  air  of  interest. 

"I  see  that  you  depend  upon  the  larger 
islands  fo*1  some  supplies  —  cough  drops,  for 
instance?"  said  the  stranger,  with  needless 
clearness.  "  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  you 
would  have  done  better  to  choose  a  less  ex 
posed  island  —  one  nearer  the  main-land, 
you  know,  in  a  place  better  sheltered  from 
the  winds." 

"  They  do  cut  us  'most  in  two,"  said  the 
King,  meekly,  and  his  face  fell.  Frankfort 
felt  quite  ashamed  of  himself,  but  he  was 
conscious  already  of  an  antagonistic  feeling. 


36  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

Indeed,  tins  was  an  island  of  folly  ;  this  man, 
who  felt  himself  to  be  better  than  his  neigh 
bors,  was  the  sacrificer  of  his  family's  com 
fort  ;  he  was  heaping  up  riches,  and  who 
would  gather  them?  Not  the  poor  pale 
daughter,  that  was  certain.  In  this  moment 
they  passed  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  dis 
covered  Phebe  herself  standing  on  the  dg,or- 
step,  watching  some  distant  point  of  the  sea 
or  sky  with  a  heavy,  much  battered  spy-glass. 

She  looked  pleased  as  she  lowered  the 
glass  for  a  moment,  and  greeted  Frankfort 
with  a  silent  welcome. 

"  Oh,  so  't  is ;  now  I  forgot  't  was  this 
afternoon,"  said  Quint.  "  She  's  a-watchin' 
the  funeral ;  ain't  you,  daughter  ?  Old  Mis' 
Danforth,  over  onto  Wall  Island,  that  has 
been  layin'  sick  all  summer  —  a  cousin  o' 
my  mother's,"  he  confessed,  in  a  lower  tone, 
and  turned  away  with  feigned  unconcern  as 
Frankfort  took  the  spy-glass  which  Phebe 
offered.  He  was  sure  that  his  hostess  had 
been  wishing  that  she  could  share  in  the 
family  gathering.  Was  it  possible  that 
Quint  was  a  tyrant,  and  had  never  let  this 
grown  woman  leave  his  chosen  isle  ?  Free 
dom,  indeed! 

He  forgot  the  affairs  of  Folly  Island  the 


THE  KING    OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  37 

next  moment,  as  he  caught  sight  of  the 
strange  procession.  He  could  see  the  coffin 
with  its  black  pall  in  a  boat  rowed  by  four 
men,  who  had  pushed  out  a  little  way  from 
shore,  and  other  boats  near  it.  From  the 
low  gray  house  near  the  water  came  a  little 
group  of  women  stepping  down  across  the 
rough  beach  and  getting  into  their  boats; 
then  all  fell  into  a  rude  sort  of  orderliness, 
the  hearse-boat  going  first,  and  the  proces 
sion  went  away  across  the  wide  bay  toward 
the  main-land.  He  lowered  the  glass  for  an 
instant,  and  Phebe  reached  for  it  eagerly. 

"  They  were  just  bringing  out  the  coffin 
before  you  came,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh ; 
and  Frankfort,  who  had  seen  many  pageants 
and  ceremonials,  rebuked  himself  for  having 
stolen  so  much  of  this  rare  pleasure  from 
his  hostess.  He  could  still  see  the  floating 
funeral.  Though  it  was  only  a  far-away  line 
of  boats,  there  was  a  strange  awe  and  fas 
cination  in  watching  them  follow  their  sin 
gle,  steady  course. 

"  Danforth's  folks  bury  over  to  the  Fore- 
side,"  explained  the  King  of  Folly  Island ; 
but  his  guest  had  taken  a  little  book  from 
his  pocket,  and  seated  himself  on  a  rock  that 
made  one  boundary  of  the  gay,  disorderly 


38  THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

garden.  It  was  very  shady  and  pleasant  at 
this  side  of  the  house,  and  he  was  too  warm 
after  his  walk  across  the  unshaded  pastures. 
It  was  very  hot  sunshine  for  that  time  of 
the  year,  and  his  holiday  began  to  grow  dull. 
Was  he,  after  all,  good  for  nothing  but 
money-making  ?  The  thought  fairly  haunted 
him  ;  he  had  lost  his  power  of  enjoyment, 
and  there  might  be  no  remedy. 

The  fisherman  had  disappeared;  the  fu 
neral  was  a  dim  speck  off  there  where  the 
sun  glittered  on  the  water,  yet  he  saw  it  still, 
and  his  book  closed  over  his  listless  fingers. 
Phebe  sat  on  the  door-step  knitting  now, 
with  the  old  glass  laid  by  her  side  ready  for 
use.  Frankfort  looked  at  her  presently  with 
a  smile. 

"Will  you  let  me  see  your  book ? "  she 
asked,  with  a  child's  eagerness ;  and  he  gave 
it  to  her. 

"It  is  an  old  copy  of  Wordsworth's 
shorter  poems,"  he  said.  "  It  belonged  to 
my  mother.  'Her  name  was  the  same  as 
yours." 

"  She  spelled  it  with  the  o,"  said  Phebe, 
radiant  with  interest  in  this  discovery,  and 
closely  examining  the  flyleaf.  "  What  a 
pretty  hand  she  wrote  !  Is  it  a  book  you 
like?" 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  39 

"  I  like  it  best  because  it  was  hers,  I  am 
afraid,"  replied  Frankfort,  honestly.  "  Yes, 
it  does  one  good  to  read  such  poems  ;  but  I 
find  it  hard  to  read  anything  in  these  days  ; 
my  business  fills  my  mind.  You  know  so 
little,  here  on  your  island,  of  the  way  the 
great  world  beyond  pushes  and  fights  and 
wrangles." 

"  I  suppose  there  are  some  pleasant  folks," 
said  Phebe,  simply.  "  I  used  to  like  to 
read,  but  I  found  it  made  me  lonesome.  I 
used  to  wish  I  could  go  ashore  and  do  all 
the  things  that  folks  in  books  did.  But  I 
don't  care  now ;  I  would  n't  go  away  from 
the  island  for  anything." 

"  No,"  said  Frankfort,  kindly ;  "  I 
would  n't  if  I  were  you.  Go  on  dreaming 
about  the  world ;  that  is  better.  And  it 
does  people  good  to  come  here  and  see  you 
so  comfortable  and  contented,"  he  added, 
with  a  tenderness  in  his  voice  that  was  quite 
foreign  to  it  of  late  years.  But  Phebe  gave 
one  quick  look  at  the  far  horizon,  her  thin 
cheeks  grew  very  rosy,  and  she  looked  down 
again  at  her  knitting. 

Presently  she  went  into  the  house.  At 
tea-time  that  evening  the  guest  was  surprised 
to  find  the  little  table  decked  out  for  a  festi- 


40  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

val,  with  some  flowered  cliina,  and  a  straight- 
backed  old  mahogany  chair  from  the  best 
room  in  his  own  place  of  honor.  Phebe 
looked  gay  and  excited,  and  Frankfort  won 
dered  at  the  feast,  as  well  as  the  master  of 
the  house,  when  they  came  to  take  their  places. 

"  You  see,  you  found  me  unawares  last 
night,  coming  so  unexpected,"  said  the  poor 
pale  mistress.  "  I  did  n't  want  you  to  think 
that  we  had  forgotten  how  to  treat  folks." 

And  somehow  the  man  whose  face  was 
usually  so  cold  and  unchanging  could  hardly 
keep  back  his  tears  while,  after  the  supper 
was  cleared  away,  he  was  shown  a  little 
model  of  a  meeting-house,  steeple  and  all, 
which  Phebe  had  made  from  card-board 
and  covered  with  small  shells  a  winter  or 
two  before.  She  brought  it  to  him  with  a 
splendid  sense  of  its  art,  and  Frankfort 
said  everything  that  could  be  said  except 
that  it  was  beautiful.  He  even  begged  to 
be  told  exactly  how  it  was  done,  and  they 
sat  by  the  light  together  and  discussed  the 
poor  toy,  while  the  King  of  Folly  Island 
dozed  and  waked  again  with  renewed  pleas 
ure  as  he  contemplated  his  daughter's  enjoy 
ment.  But  she  coughed  very  often,  poor 
Phebe,  and  the  guest  wondered  if  the  post- 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  41 

master's  supply  of  drugs  were  equal  to  this 
pitiful  illness.  Poor  Phebe !  and  winter 
would  be  here  soon  ! 

Day  after  day,  in  the  bright  weather, 
Frankfort  lingered  with  his  new  friends, 
spending  a  morning  now  and  then  in  fishing 
with  his  host,  and  coming  into  closer  con 
tact  with  the  inhabitants  of  that  part  of  the 
world. 

Before  the  short  visit  was  over,  the  guest 
was  aware  that  he  had  been  very  tired  and 
out  of  sorts  when  he  had  yielded  to  the  de 
sire  to  hide  away  from  civilization,  and  had 
drifted,  under  some  pilotage  that  was  be 
yond  himself,  into  this  quiet  haven.  He 
felt  stronger  and  in  much  better  spirits,  and 
remembered  afterward  that  he  had  been  as 
merry  as  a  boy  on  Folly  Island  in  the  long 
evenings  when  Phebe  was  busy  with  her 
knitting-work ,  and  her  father  told  long  and 
spirited  stories  of  his  early  experiences  along 
the  coast  and  among  the  fisherman.  But 
business  cares  began  to  fret  this  holiday- 
maker,  and  as  suddenly  as  he  had  come  he 
went  away  again  on  a  misty  morning  that 
promised  rain.  He  was  very  sorry  when 
he  said  good-by  to  Phebe  ;  she  was  crying 
as  he  left  the  house,  and  a  great  wave  of 


42  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

compassion  poured  itself  over  Frankfort's 
heart.  He  never  should  see  her  again,  that 
was  certain  ;  he  wished  that  he  could  spirit 
her  away  to  some  gentler  climate,  and  half 
spoke  his  thought  as  he  stood  hesitating  that 
last  minute  on  the  little  beach.  The  next 
moment  he  was  fairly  in  the  boat  and  push 
ing  out  from  shore.  George  Quint  looked 
as  hardy  and  ruddy  and  weather-beaten  as 
his  daughter  was  pale  and  faded,  like  some 
frost-bitten  flower  that  tries  to  lift  itself 
when  morning  comes  and  it  feels  the  warmth 
of  the  sun.  The  tough  fisherman,  with  his 
pet  doctrines  and  angry  aversions,  could 
have  no  idea  of  the  loneliness  of  his  wife  and 
daughter  all  these  unvarying  years  on  his 
Folly  Island.  And  yet  how  much  they  had 
been  saved  of  useless  rivalries  and  jealous 
ies,  of  petty  tyranny  from  narrow  souls ! 
Frankfort  had  a  bitter  sense  of  all  that,  as 
he  leaned  back  against  the  side  of  the  boat, 
and  sailed  slowly  out  into  the  bay,  while 
Folly  Island  seemed  to  retreat  into  the  gath 
ering  fog  and  slowly  disappear.  His 
thoughts  flew  before  him  to  his  office,  to  his 
clerks  and  accounts ;  he  thought  of  his 
wealth  which  was  buying  him  nothing,  of 
his  friends  who  were  no  friends  at  all,  for 


THE  KING   OF  POLL  Y  ISLAND.  43 

he  had  pushed  away  some  who  might  have 
been  near,  strangely  impatient  of  famil 
iarity,  and  on  the  defense  against  either 
mockery  or  rivalry.  He  was  the  true  King 
of  Folly  Island,  not  this  work-worn  fisher 
man  ;  he  had  been  a  lonelier  and  a  more 
selfish  man  these  many  years. 

George  Quint  was  watching  Frankfort 
eagerly,  as  if  he  had  been  waiting  for  this 
chance  to  speak  to  him  alone. 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  kind  of  solitary  crea- 
tur',"  he  suggested,  with  his  customary 
frankness.  "  I  expect  it  never  crossed  your 
thought  that  't  would  be  nateral  to  git  mar 
ried?" 

"  Yes,  I  thought  about  it  once,  some 
years  ago,"  answered  Frankfort,  seriously. 

"  Disapp'inted,  was  you  ?  Well,  't  was 
better  soon  nor  late,  if  it  had  to  be,"  said 
the  sage.  "  My  mind  has  been  dwellin'  on 
Phebe's  case.  She  was  a  master  pooty  gal 
'arlier  on,  an'  I  was  dreadful  set  against 
lettin'  of  her  go,  though  I  call  to  mind  there 
was  a  likely  chap  as  found  her  out,  an'  made 
bold  to  land  an'  try  to  court  her.  I  drove 
him,  I  tell  you,  an'  ducked  him  under  when 
I  caught  him  afterward  out  a-fishin',  an'  he 
took  the  hint.  Phebe  didn't  know  what 


44  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

was  to  pay,  though  I  dare  say  she  liked  to 
have  him  follerin'  about." 

Frankfort  made  no  answer,  —  he  was  very 
apt  to  be  silent  when  you  expected  him  to 
speak,  —  and  presently  the  King  resumed 
his  suggestions. 

"  I  've  been  thinking  that  Phebe  ought  to 
have  some  sort  o'  brightenin'  up.  She 
pines  for  her  mother :  they  was  a  sight  o* 
company  for  each  other.  Now  I  s'pose  you 
could  n't  take  no  sort  o'  fancy  for  her  in 
course  o'  time  ?  I  've  got  more  hard  cash 
stowed  away  than  folks  expects,  an'  you 
should  have  everything  your  own  way.  I 
could  git  a  cousin  o'  mine,  a  widow  woman, 
to  keep  the  house  winters,  an'  you  an'  the 
gal  need  n't  only  summer  here.  I  take  it 
you  've  got  some  means  ?  " 

Frankfort  found  himself  smiling  at  this 
pathetic  appeal,  and  was  ashamed  of  himself 
directly,  and  turned  to  look  seaward.  "  I  'm 
afraid  I  could  n't  think  of  it,"  he  answered. 
"  You  don't  suppose  "  — 

"  Lor'  no,"  said  George  Quint,  sadly, 
shifting  his  sail.  "  She  ain't  give  no  sign, 
except  that  I  never  see  her  take  to  no  stran 
ger  as  she  has  to  you.  I  thought  you  might 
kind  of  have  a  feelin'  for  her,  an'  I  knowed 


THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  45 

you  thought  the  island  was  a  sightly  place ; 
't  would  do  no  harm  to  speak,  leastways." 

They  were  on  their  way  to  John's  Island, 
where  Frankfort  was  to  take  the  postmas 
ter's  boat  to  the  main-land.  Quint  found 
his  fog-bound  way  by  some  mysterious  in 
stinct,  and  at  their  journey's  ends  the 
friends  parted  with  little  show  of  sentiment 
or  emotion.  Yet  there  was  much  expression 
in  Quint's  grasp  of  his  hand,  Frankfort 
thought,  and  both  men  turned  more  than 
once  as  the  boats  separated,  to  give  a  kindly 
glance  backward.  People  are  not  brought 
together  in  this  world  for  nothing,  and  poor 
Quint  had  no  idea  of  the  confusion  that  his 
theories  and  his  manner  of  life  had  brought 
into  the  well-regulated  affairs  of  John 
Frankfort.  Jabez  Pennell  was  brimful  of 
curiosity  about  the  visit,  but  he  received 
little  satisfaction.  "  Phebe  Quint  was  the 
pootiest  gal  on  these  islands  some  ten  years 
ago,"  he  proclaimed,  "  an'  a  born  lady. 
Her  mother's  folks  was  ministers  over  to 
Castine." 

The  winter  was  nearly  gone  when  Frank 
fort  received  a  letter  in  a  yellow  envelope, 
unbusiness-like  in  its  appearance.  The  King 


46  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

of  Folly  Island  wrote  to  say  that  Pliebe  had 
been  hoping  to  get  strength  enough  to  thank 
him  for  the  generous  Christmas-box  which 
Frankfort  had  sent.  He  had  taxed  both 
his  imagination  and  memory  to  supply  the 
minor  wants  and  fancies  of  the  islanders. 

But  Phebe  was  steadily  failing  in  health, 
and  the  elderly  cousin  had  already  been 
summoned  to  take  care  of  her  and  to  man 
age  the  house-keeping.  The  King  wrote  a 
crabbed  hand,  as  if  he  had  used  a  fish-hook 
instead  of  a  pen,  and  he  told  the  truth 
about  his  sad  affairs  with  simple,  unlament- 
ing  bravery.  Phebe  only  sent  a  message  of 
thanks,  and  an  assurance  that  she  liked  to 
think  of  Frankfort's  being  there  in  the  fall. 
She  would  soon  send  him  a  small  keepsake. 

One  morning  Frankfort  opened  a  much- 
crushed  bundle  which  lay  upon  his  desk,  and 
found  this  keepsake,  the  shell  meeting-house, 
which  looked  sadly  trivial  and  astray.  He 
was  entirely  confused  by  its  unexpected  ap 
pearance  ;  he  did  not  dare  to  meet  the  eyes 
of  an  office-boy  who  stood  near  ;  there  was 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  in  his  throat,  but 
he  bravely  unfastened  a  letter  from  the  bat 
tered  steeple,  and  read  it  slowly,  without  a 
very  clear  understanding  of  the  words  :  — 


THE  KING  OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  47 

"DEAR  FRIEND"  (said  poor  Pliebe), — 
"  I  was  very  thankful  for  all  that  you  sent 
in  the  box  —  I  take  such  pleasure  in  the 
things.  I  find  it  hard  to  write,  but  I  think 
about  you  every  day.  Father  sends  his  best 
respects.  We  have  had  rough  weather,  and 
he  stays  right  here  with  me.  You  must 
keep  your  promise,  and  come  back  to  the  isl 
and  ;  he  will  be  lonesome,  and  you  are  one 
that  takes  father  just  right.  It  seems  as  if 
I  had  n't  been  any  use  in  the  world,  but  it 
rests  me,  laying  here,  to  think  what  a  sight 
of  use  you  must  be.  And  so  good-by." 

A  sudden  vision  of  the  poor  girl  came 
before  his  eyes  as  he  saw  her  stand  on  the 
door- step  the  day  they  watched  the  boat 
funeral.  She  had  worn  a  dress  with  a  quaint 
pattern,  like  gray  and  yellowish  willow 
leaves  as  one  sees  them  fallen  by  the  coun 
try  roadsides.  A  vision  of  her  thin,  stoop 
ing  shoulders  and  her  simple,  pleasant  look 
touched  him  with  real  sorrow.  "  Much  use 
in  the  world  !  "  Alas !  alas  !  how  had  her 
affection  made  her  fancy  such  a  thing ! 

The  day  was  stormy,  and  Frankfort 
turned  anxiously  to  look  out  of  the  window 
beside  him,  as  he  thought  how  the  wind 


48  THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND. 

must  blow  across  the  distant  bay.  He  felt 
a  strange  desire  to  sweep  away  everything 
that  might  vex  poor  Phebe  or  make  her  less 
comfortable.  Yet  she  must  die,  at  any  rate, 
before  the  summer  came.  The  King  of 
Folly  Island  would  reign  only  over  his  sheep 
pastures  and  the  hemlock-trees  and  pines. 
Much  use  in  the  world !  The  words  stung 
him  more  and  more. 

The  office-boy  still  stood  waiting,  and 
now  Frankfort  became  unhappily  conscious 
of  his  presence.  "  I  used  to  see  one  o'  them 
shell-works  where  I  come  from,  up  in  the 
country,"  the  boy  said,  with  unexpected  for 
bearance  and  sympathy  ;  but  Frankfort  dis 
missed  him  with  a  needless  question  about 
the  price  of  certain  railroad  bonds,  and 
dropped  the  embarrassing  gift,  the  poor  lit 
tle  meeting-house,  into  a  deep  lower  drawer 
of  his  desk.  He  had  hardly  thought  of  the 
lad  before  except  as  a  willing,  half  mechan 
ical  errand-runner  ;  now  he  was  suddenly 
conscious  of  the  hopeful,  bright  young  face. 
At  that  moment  a  whole  new  future  of  hu 
man  interests  spread  out  before  his  eyes, 
from  which  a  veil  had  suddenly  been  with 
drawn,  and  Frankfort  felt  like  another  man, 
or  as  if  there  had  been  a  revivifying  of  his 


THE  KING   OF  FOLLY  ISLAND.  49 

old,  uninterested,  self-occupied  nature.  Was 
there  really  such  a  thing  as  taking  part  in 
the  heavenly  warfare  against  ignorance  and 
selfishness  ?  Had  Phebe  given  him  in  some 
mysterious  way  a  legacy  of  all  her  unsatis 
fied  hopes  and  dreams  ? 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY. 


ALL  the  morning  there  had  been  an  in 
creasing  temptation  to  take  an  out -door 
holiday,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  the  temp 
tation  outgrew  my  power  of  resistance.  A 
far-away  pasture  on  the  long  southwestern 
slope  of  a  high  hill  was  persistently  present 
to  my  mind,  yet  there  seemed  to  be  no  par 
ticular  reason  why  I  should  think  of  it.  I 
was  not  sure  that  I  wanted  anything  from 
the  pasture,  and  there  was  no  sign,  except 
the  temptation,  that  the  pasture  wanted  any 
thing  of  me.  But  I  was  on  the  farther  side 
of  as  many  as  three  fences  before  I  stopped 
to  think  again  where  I  was  going,  and  why. 

There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  tell  another 
person  about  that  afternoon  unless  he  dis 
tinctly  remembers  weather  exactly  like  it. 
No  number  of  details  concerning  an  Arctic 
ice-blockade  will  give  a  single  shiver  to  a 
child  of  the  tropics.  This  was  one  of  those 


THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER   WISBY.       51 

perfect  New  England  days  in  late  summer, 
when  the  spirit  of  autumn  takes  a  first 
stealthy  flight,  like  a  spy,  through  the  ripen 
ing  country-side,  and,  with  feigned  sym 
pathy  for  those  who  droop  with  August 
heat,  puts  her  cool  cloak  of  bracing  air 
about  leaf  and  flower  and  human  shoulders. 
Every  living  thing  grows  suddenly  cheerful 
and  strong  ;  it  is  only  when  you  catch  sight 
of  a  horror-stricken  little  maple  in  swampy 
soil,  —  a  little  maple  that  has  second  sight 
and  foreknowledge  of  coming  disaster  to  her 
race,  —  only  then  does  a  distrust  of  au 
tumn's  friendliness  dim  your  joyful  satisfac 
tion. 

In  midwinter  there  is  always  a  day  when 
one  has  the  first  foretaste  of  spring  ;  in  late 
August  there  is  a  morning  when  the  air  is 
for  the  first  time  autumn  like.  Perhaps  it 
is  a  hint  to  the  squirrels  to  get  in  their  first 
supplies  for  the  winter  hoards,  or  a  reminder 
that  summer  will  soon  end,  and  everybody 
had  better  make  the  most  of  it.  We  are 
always  looking  forward  to  the  passing  and 
ending  of  winter,  but  when  summer  is  here 
it  seems  as  if  summer  must  always  last.  As 
I  went  across  the  fields  that  day,  I  found  my 
self  half  lamenting  that  the  world  must  fade 


52       THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

again,  even  that  the  best  of  her  budding  and 
bloom  was  only  a  preparation  for  another 
spring-time,  for  an  awakening  beyond  the 
coming  winter's  sleep. 

The  sun  was  slightly  veiled ;  there  was  a 
chattering  group  of  birds,  which  had  gath 
ered  for  a  conference  about  their  early  mi 
gration.  Yet,  oddly  enough,  I  heard  the 
voice  of  a  belated  bobolink,  and  presently 
saw  him  rise  from  the  grass  and  hover  lei 
surely,  while  he  sang  a  brief  tune.  He  was 
much  behind  time  if  he  were  still  a  house 
keeper  ;  but  as  for  the  other  birds,  who  lis 
tened,  they  cared  only  for  their  own  notes. 
An  old  crow  went  sagging  by,  and  gave  a 
croak  at  his  despised  neighbor,  just  as  a 
black  reviewer  croaked  at  Keats  :  so  hard  it 
is  to  be  just  to  one's  contemporaries.  The 
bobolink  was  indeed  singing  out  of  season, 
and  it  was  impossible  to  say  whether  he 
really  belonged  most  to  this  summer  or  to 
the  next.  He  might  have  been  delayed  on 
his  northward  journey  ;  at  any  rate,  he  had 
a  light  heart  now,  to  judge  from  his  song, 
and  I  wished  that  I  could  ask  him  a  few 
questions,  —  how  he  liked  being  the  last 
man  among  the  bobolinks,  and  where  he  had 
taken  singing  lessons  in  the  South. 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER   WISBY.       53 

Presently  I  left  the  lower  fields,  and  took 
a  path  that  led  higher,  where  I  could  look 
beyond  the  village  to  the  northern  country 
mountainward.  Here  the  sweet  fern  grew, 
thick  and  fragrant,  and  I  also  found  myself 
heedlessly  treading  on  pennyroyal.  Near 
by,  in  a  field  corner,  I  long  ago  made  a  most 
comfortable  seat  by  putting  a  stray  piece  of 
board  and  bit  of  rail  across  the  angle  of  the 
fences.  I  have  spent  many  a  delightful 
hour  there,  in  the  shade  and  shelter  of  a 
young  pitch-pine  and  a  wild-cherry  tree,  with 
a  lovely  outlook  toward  the  village,  just  far 
enough  away  beyond  the  green  slopes  and 
tall  elms  of  the  lower  meadows.  But  that 
day  I  still  had  the  feeling  of  being  outward 
bound,  and  did  not  turn  aside  nor  linger. 
The  high  pasture  land  grew  more  and  more 
enticing. 

I  stopped  to  pick  some  blackberries  that 
twinkled  at  me  like  beads  among  their  dry 
vines,  and  two  or  three  yellow-birds  fluttered 
up  from  the  leaves  of  a  thistle,  and  then 
came  back  again,  as  if  they  had  complacently 
discovered  that  I  was  only  an  overgrown 
yellow-bird,  in  strange  disguise  but  perfectly 
harmless.  They  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were 
an  intruder,  though  they  did  not  offer  to 


54      THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER   WISBY. 

peck  at  me,  and  we  parted  company  very 
soon.  It  was  good  to  stand  at  last  on  the 
great  shoulder  of  the  hill.  The  wind  was 
coming  in  from  the  sea,  there  was  a  fine  fra 
grance  from  the  pines,  and  the  air  grew 
sweeter  every  moment.  I  took  new  pleasure 
in  the  thought  that  in  a  piece  of  wild  pasture 
land  like  this  one  may  get  closest  to  Nature, 
and  subsist  upon  what  she  gives  of  her  own 
free  will.  There  have  been  no  drudging, 
heavy-shod  ploughmen  to  overturn  the  soil, 
and  vex  it  into  yielding  artificial  crops. 
Here  one  has  to  take  just  what  Nature  is 
pleased  to  give,  whether  one  is  a  yellow-bird 
or  a  human  being.  It  is  very  good  entertain 
ment  for  a  summer  wayfarer,  and  I  am  ask 
ing  my  reader  now  to  share  the  winter  pro 
vision  which  I  harvested  that  day.  Let  us 
hope  that  the  small  birds  are  also  faring 
well  after  their  fashion,  but  I  give  them  an 
anxious  thought  while  the  snow  goes  hurry 
ing  in  long  waves  across  the  buried  fields, 
this  windy  winter  night. 

I  next  went  farther  down  the  hill,  and 
got  a  drink  of  fresh  cool  water  from  the 
brook,  and  pulled  a  tender  sheaf  of  sweet 
flag  beside  it.  The  mossy  old  fence  just  be 
yond  was  the  last  barrier  between  me  and 


THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  W1SBY.       55 

the  pasture  which  had  sent  an  invisible  mes 
senger  earlier  in  the  day,  but  I  saw  that 
somebody  else  had  come  first  to  the  ren 
dezvous  :  there  was  a  brown  gingham  cape  • 
bonnet  and  a  sprigged  shoulder-shawl  bob 
bing  up  and  down,  a  little  way  off  among 
the  junipers.  I  had  taken  such  uncommon 
pleasure  in  being  alone  that  I  instantly  felt 
a  sense  of  disappointment ;  then  a  warm 
glow  of  pleasant  satisfaction  rebuked-my  self 
ishness.  This  could  be  no  one  but  dear  old 
Mrs.  Goodsoe,  the  friend  of  my  childhood 
and  fond  dependence  of  my  maturer  years. 
I  had  not  seen  her  for  many  weeks,  but  here 
she  was,  out  on  one  of  her  famous  campaigns 
for  herbs,  or  perhaps  just  returning  from  a 
blueberrying  expedition.  I  approached  with 
care,  so  as  not  to  startle  the  gingham  bon 
net  ;  but  she  heard  the  rustle  of  the  bushes 
against  my  dress,  and  looked  up  quickly,  as 
she  knelt,  bending  over  the  turf.  In  that 
position  she  was  hardly  taller  than  the  lux 
uriant  junipers  themselves. 

"  I  'in  a-gittin'  in  my  mulleins,"  she  said 
briskly,  "an*  I  've  been  thinking  o'  you 
these  twenty  times  since  I  come  out  o'  the 
house.  I  begun  to  believe  you  must  ha' 
forgot  me  at  last." 


56       THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER   WISBT. 

"I  have  been  away  from  home,"  I  ex 
plained.  "  Why  don't  you  get  in  your 
pennyroyal  too  ?  There  's  a  great  plantation 
of  it  beyond  the  next  fence  but  one." 

"  Pennyr'yal !  "  repeated  the  dear  little 
old  woman,  with  an  air  of  compassion  for 
inferior  knowledge  ;  "  't  ain't  the  right  time, 
darlin'.  Pennyr'yal's  too  rank  now.  But 
for  mulleins  this  day  is  prime.  I  Ve  got  a 
dreadful  graspin'  fit  for  'em  this  year  ;  seems 
if  I  must  be  goin'  to  need  'em  extry.  I  feel 
like  the  squirrels  must  when  they  know  a 
hard  winter's  cominY'  And  Mrs.  Goodsoe 
bent  over  her  work  again,  while  I  stood  by 
and  watched  her  carefully  cut  the  best  full- 
grown  leaves  with  a  clumsy  pair  of  scissors, 
which  might  have  served  through  at  least 
half  a  century  of  herb-gathering.  They 
were  fastened  to  her  apron-strings  by  a  long 
piece  of  list. 

"  I  'in  going  to  take  my  jack-knife  and 
help  you,"  I  suggested,  with  some  fear  of  re 
fusal.  "  I  just  passed  a  flourishing  family 
of  six  or  seven  heads  that  must  have  been 
growing  on  purpose  for  you." 

"  Now  be  keerful,  dear  heart,"  was  the 
anxious  response ;  "  choose  'em  well. 
There  's  odds  in  mulleins  same 's  there  is  in 


THE   COURTING    OF  SISTER  WISBY.       57 

angels.  Take  a  plant  that 's  all  run  up  to 
stalk,  and  there  ain't  but  little  goodness  in 
the  leaves.  This  one  I  'in  at  now  must  ha' 
been  stepped  on  by  some  creatur'  and 
blighted  of  its  bloom,  and  the  leaves  is  han'- 
some !  When  I  was  small  I  used  to  have  a 
notion  that  Adam  an'  Eve  must  a  took  mul 
leins  fer  their  winter  wear.  Ain't  they  just 
like  flannel,  for  all  the  world  ?  I  've  had  ex 
perience,  and  I  know  there  's  plenty  of  sick 
ness  might  be  saved  to  folks  if  they  'd  quit 
horse-radish  and  such  fiery,  exasperating 
things,  and  use  mullein  drarves  in  proper 
season.  Now  I  shall  spread  these  an'  dry 
'em  nice  on  my  spare  floor  in  the  garrit,  an' 
come  to  steam  'em  for  use  along  in  the 
winter  there  '11  be  the  vally  of  the  whole 
summer's  goodness  in  'em,  sartin."  And 
she  snipped  away  with  the  dull  scissors, 
while  I  listened  respectfully,  and  took  great 
pains  to  have  my  part  of  the  harvest  present 
a  good  appearance. 

"  This  is  most  too  dry  a  head,"  she  added 
presently,  a  little  out  of  breath.  "  There ! 
I  can  tell  you  there  's  win'rows  o'  young 
doctors,  bilin'  over  with  book-larnin',  that 
is  truly  ignorant  of  what  to  do  for  the  sick, 
or  how  to  p'int  out  those  paths  that  well 


58       THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

people  foller  toward  sickness.  Book-fools  I 
call  'em,  them  young  men,  an'  some  on  'em 
never  '11  live  to  know  much  better,  if  they 
git  to  be  Methuselahs.  In  my  time  every 
middle-aged  woman,  who  had  brought  up  a 
family,  had  some  proper  ideas  o'  dealin'  with 
complaints.  I  won't  say  but  there  was  some 
fools  amongst  them,  but  I  'd  rather  take  my 
chances,  unless  they'd  forsook  herbs  and 
gone  to  dealin'  with  patent  stuff.  Now  my 
mother  really  did  sense  the  use  of  herbs  and 
roots.  I  never  see  anybody  that  come  up 
to  her.  She  was  a  meek-looking  woman, 
but  very  understanding  mother  was." 

"  Then  that 's  where  you  learned  so  much 
yourself,  Mrs.  Goodsoe,"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"  Bless  your  heart,  I  don't  hold  a  candle 
to  her ;  't  is  but  little  I  can  recall  of  what 
she  used  to  say.  No,  her  Farnm'  died  with 
her,"  said  my  friend,  in  a  self-depreciating 
tone.  "  Why,  there  was  as  many  as  twenty 
kinds  of  roots  alone  that  she  used  to  keep 
by  her,  that  I  forget  the  use  of  ;  an'  I  'm 
sure  I  should  n't  know  where  to  find  the 
most  of  'em,  any.  There  was  an  herb  "  — 
airb,  she  called  it  —  "  an  herb  called  master- 
wort,  that  she  used  to  get  way  from  Penn- 
sylvany ;  and  she  used  to  think  everything 


THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER   WISBY.       59 

of  noble-liverwort,  but  I  never  could  seem 
to  get  the  right  effects  from  it  as  she  could. 
Though  I  don't  know  as  she  ever  really  did 
use  masterwort  where  something  else  would  n't 
a  served.  She  had  a  cousin  married  out  in 
Pennsylvany  that  used  to  take  pains  to  get 
it  to  her  every  year  or  two,  and  so  she  felt 
't  was  important  to  have  it.  Some  set  more 
by  such  things  as  come  from  a  distance,  but 
I  rec'lect  mother  always  used  to  maintain 
that  folks  was  meant  to  be  doctored  with 
the  stuff  that  grew  right  about  'em ;  't  was 
sufficient,  an'  so  ordered.  That  was  before 
the  whole  population  took  to  livin'  on  wheels, 
the  way  they  do  now.  'T  was  never  my 
idee  that  we  was  meant  to  know  what 's 
goin'  on  all  over  the  world  to  once.  There  's 
goin'  to  be  some  sort  of  a  set-back  one  o' 
these  days,  with  these  telegraphs  an'  things, 
an'  letters  comiii'  every  hand's  turn,  and 
folks  leavin'  their  proper  work  to  answer 
'em.  I  may  not  live  to  see  it.  'T  was  al 
lowed  to  be  difficult  for  folks  to  git  about 
in  old  times,  or  to  git  word  across  the  coun 
try,  and  they  stood  in  their  lot  an'  place, 
and  were  n't  all  just  alike,  either,  same  as 
pine-spills." 

We  were  kneeling  side  by  side  now,  as  if 


60       THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

in  penitence  for  the  march  of  progress,  but 
we  laughed  as  we  turned  to  look  at  each 
other. 

"  Do  you  think  it  did  much  good  when 
everybody  brewed  a  cracked  quart  mug  of 
herb-tea?"!  asked,  walking  away  on  my 
knees  to  a  new  mullein. 

"I've  always  lifted  my  voice  against  the 
practice,  far  's  I  could,"  declared  Mrs.  Good- 
soe  ;  "  an'  I  won't  deal  out  none  o'  the  herbs 
I  save  for  no  such  nonsense.  There  was 
three  houses  along  our  road,  —  I  call  no 
names,  —  where  you  could  n't  go  into  the 
livin'  room  without  fin  din'  a  mess  o'  herb- 
tea  drorin'  on  the  stove  or  side  o'  the  fire 
place,  winter  or  summer,  sick  or  well.  One 
was  thoroughwut,  one  would  be  camomile, 
and  the  other,  like  as  not,  yellow  dock  ;  but 
they  all  used  to  put  in  a  little  new  rum  to 
git  out  the  goodness,  or  keep  it  from  spilin'." 
(Mrs.  Goodsoe  favored  me  with  a  knowing 
smile.)  "  Land,  how  mother  used  to  laugh ! 
But,  poor  creaturs,  they  had  to  work  hard, 
and  I  guess  it  never  done  'em  a  mite  o' 
harm  ;  they  was  all  good  herbs.  I  wish  you 
could  hear  the  quawkin'  there  used  to  be 
when  they  was  indulged  with  a  real  case  o' 
sickness.  Everybody  would  collect  from 


THE   COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY.       61 

far  an'  near ;  you  'd  see  'em  coming  along 
the  road  and  across  the  pastures  then  ;  every 
body  clamorin'  that  nothin'  would  n't  do  no 
kind  o'  good  but  her  choice  o?  teas  or  drarves 
to  the  feet.  I  wonder  there  was  a  babe 
lived  to  grow  up  in  the  whole  lower  part  o* 
the  town  ;  an'  if  nothin'  else  'peared  to  ail 
'em,  word  was  passed  about  that 't  was  likely 
Mis'  So-and-So's  last  young  one  was  goin' 
to  be  foolish.  Land,  how  they  'd  gather ! 
I  know  one  day  the  doctor  come  to  Widder 
Peck's  and  the  house  was  crammed  so  't  he 
could  scercely  git  inside  the  door ;  and  he 
says,  just  as  polite,  '  Do  send  for  some  of 
the  neighbors  !  '  as  if  there  wa'n't  a  soul  to 
turn  to,  right  or  left.  You  'd  ought  to  seen 
'em  begin  to  scatter." 

"  But  don't  you  think  the  cars  and  tele 
graphs  have  given  people  more  to  interest 
them,  Mrs.  Goodsoe  ?  Don't  you  believe 
people's  lives  were  narrower  then,  and  more 
taken  up  with  little  things  ?  "  I  asked,  un 
wisely,  being  a  product  of  modern  times. 

"  Not  one  mite,  dear,"  said  my  companion 
stoutly.  "  There  was  as  big  thoughts  then 
as  there  is  now;  these  times  was  born  o' 
them.  The  difference  is  in  folks  themselves  ; 
but  now,  instead  o'  doin'  their  own  house- 


62       THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER    WISBY. 

keepin'  and  watchin'  their  own  neighbors,  — 
though  that  was  carried  to  excess,  —  they 
git  word  that  a  niece's  child  is  ailin'  the 
other  side  o'  Massachusetts,  and  they  drop 
everything  and  git  on  their  best  clothes,  and 
off  they  jiggit  in  the  cars.  'Tis  a  bad  sign 
when  folks  wears  out  their  best  clothes  faster 
'n  they  do  their  every-day  ones.  The  other 
side  o'  Massachusetts  has  got  to  look  after 
itself  by  rights.  An'  besides  that,  Sunday- 
keepin'  's  all  gone  out  o'  fashion.  Some  lays 
it  to  one  thing  an'  some  another,  but  some  o' 
them  old  ministers  that  folks  are  all  a-siffhin* 

O 

for  did  preach  a  lot  o'  stuff  that  wa'n't 
nothin'  but  chaff  ;  't  wa'n't  the  word  o'  God 
out  o'  either  Old  Testament  or  New.  But 
everybody  went  to  meetin'  and  heard  it,  and 
come  home,  and  was  set  to  fightin'  with 
their  next  door  neighbor  over  it.  Now  I  'in 
a  believer,  and  I  try  to  live  a  Christian  life, 
but  I  'd  as  soon  hear  a  surveyor's  book  read 
out,  figgers  an'  all,  as  try  to  get  any  simple 
truth  out  o'  most  sermons.  It's  them  as  is 
most  to  blame." 

"  What  was  the  matter  that  day  at  Widow 
Peck's?"  I  hastened  to  ask,  for  I  knew  by 
experience  that  the  good,  clear-minded  soul 
beside  me  was  apt  to  grow  unduly  vexed  and 


THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY.       63 

distressed  when  she  contemplated  the  state 
of  religious  teaching. 

"  Why,  there  wa'n't  nothin'  the  matter, 
only  a  gal  o'  Miss  Peck's  had  met  with  a 
dis'pintment  and  had  gone  into  screechin' 
fits.  'T  was  a  rovin'  creatur'  that  had  come 
along  hayin'  time,  and  he  'd  gone  off  an' 
forsook  her  betwixt  two  days ;  nobody  ever 
knew  what  become  of  him.  Them  Pecks 
was  '  Good  Lord,  anybody !  '  kind  o'  gals, 
and  took  up  with  whoever  they  could  get. 
One  of  'em  married  Heron,  the  Irishman ; 
they  lived  in  that  little  house  that  was  burnt 
this  summer,  over  on  the  edge  o'  the  plains. 
He  was  a  good-hearted  creatur',  with  a 
laughin'  eye  and  a  clever  word  for  everybody. 
He  was  the  first  Irishman  that  ever  came 
this  way,  and  we  was  all  for  gettin'  a  look  at 
him,  when  he  first  used  to  go  by.  Mother's 
folks  was  what  they  call  Scotch-Irish,  though ; 
there  was  an  old  race  of  'em  settled  about 
here.  They  could  foretell  events,  some  on  'em, 
and  had  the  second  sight.  I  know  folks  used 
to  say  mother's  grandmother  had  them  gifts, 
but  mother  was  never  free  to  speak  about 
it  to  us.  She  remembered  her  well,  too." 

"  I  suppose  that  you  mean  old  Jim  Heron, 
who  was  such  a  famous  fiddler  ?  "  I  asked 


64       THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER   WISBY. 

with  great  interest,  for  I  am  always  delighted 
to  know  more  about  that  rustic  hero,  paro 
chial  Orpheus  that  he  must  have  been  ! 

"  Now,  dear  heart,  I  suppose  you  don't  re 
member  him,  do  you  ?  "  replied  Mrs.  0  oodsoe, 
earnestly.  "  Fiddle  !  He  'd  about  break 
your  heart  with  them  tunes  of  his,  or  else  set 
your  heels  flying  up  the  floor  in  a  jig,  though 
you  was  minister  o'  the  First  Parish  and  all 
wound  up  for  a  funeral  prayer.  I  tell  ye 
there  ain't  no  tunes  sounds  like  them  used 
to.  It  used  to  seem  to  me  summer  nights 
when  I  was  comin'  along  the  plains  road, 
and  he  set  by  the  window  playin',  as  if  there 
was  a  bewitched  human  creatur'  in  that  old 
red  fiddle  o'  his.  He  could  make  it  sound 
just  like  a  woman's  voice  tellin'  somethin' 
over  and  over,  as  if  folks  could  help  her  out 
o'  her  sorrows  if  she  could  only  make  'em 
understand.  I  've  set  by  the  stone-wall  and 
cried  as  if  my  heart  was  broke,  and  dear 
knows  it  wa'n't  in  them  days.  How  he  would 
twirl  off  them  jigs  and  dance  tunes !  He 
used  to  make  somethin'  han'some  out  of  'em 
in  fall  an'  winter,  playin'  at  huskins  and 
dancin'  parties ;  but  he  was  unstiddy  by 
spells,  as  he  got  along  in  years,  and  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  forehanded.  Every- 


TEE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY.       65 

body  felt  bad  when  he  died ;  you  could  n't 
help  likin'  the  creatur'.  He  'd  got  the  gift  — 
that 's  all  you  could  say  about  it. 

"  There  was  a  Mis'  Jerry  Foss,  that  lived 
over  by  the  brook  bridge,  on  the  plains  road, 
that  had  lost  her  husband  early,  and  was  left 
with  three  child 'n.  She  set  the  world  by  'em, 
and  was  a  real  pleasant,  ambitious  little  wo 
man,  and  was  workin'  on  as  best  she  could 
with  that  little  farm,  when  there  come  a  rage 
o'  scarlet  fever,  and  her  boy  and  two  girls 
was  swept  off  and  laid  dead  within  the  same 
week.  Every  one  o'  the  neighbors  did  what 
they  could,  but  she  'd  had  no  sleep  since  they 
was  taken  sick,  and  after  the  funeral  she  set 
there  just  like  a  piece  o'  marble,  and  would 
only  shake  her  head  when  you  spoke  to  her. 
They  all  thought  her  reason  would  go  ;  and 
't  would  certain,  if  she  could  n't  have  shed 
tears.  An'  one  o'  the  neighbors  —  't  was  like 
mother's  sense,  but  it  might  have  been  some 
body  else  — spoke  o'  Jim  Heron.  Mother 
an'  one  or  two  o'  the  women  that  knew  her 
best  was  in  the  house  with  her.  'T  was  right 
in  the  edge  o'  the  woods  and  some  of  us 
younger  ones  was  over  by  the  wall  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road  where  there  was  a 
couple  of  old  willows, — I  remember  just 


66       THE   COURTING  OF  SISTER  W1SBY. 

how  the  brook  damp  felt ;  and  we  kept 
quiet 's  we  could,  and  some  other  folks  come 
along  down  the  road,  and  stood  waitin'  on 
the  little  bridge,  hopin'  somebody  'd  come 
out,  I  suppose,  and  they  'd  git  news.  Every 
body  was  wrought  up,  and  felt  a  good  deal 
for  her,  you  know.  By  an'  by  Jim  Heron 
come  stealin'  right  out  o'  the  shadows  an'  set 
down  on  the  doorstep,  an'  't  was  a  good  while 
before  we  heard  a  sound ;  then,  oh,  dear  me  ! 
't  was  what  the  whole  neighborhood  felt  for 
that  mother  all  spoke  in  the  notes,  an'  they 
told  me  afterwards  that  Mis'  Foss's  face 
changed  in  a  minute,  and  she  come  right 
over  an'  got  into  my  mother's  lap,  —  she  was 
a  little  woman,  —  an'  laid  her  head  down, 
and  there  she  cried  herself  into  a  blessed 
sleep.  After  awhile  one  o'  the  other  women 
stole  out  an'  told  the  folks,  and  we  all  went 
home.  He  only  played  that  one  tune. 

"  But  there !  "  resumed  Mrs.  Goodsoe, 
after  a  silence,  during  which  my  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears.  "  His  wife  always  com 
plained  that  the  fiddle  made  her  nervous. 
She  never  'peared  to  think  nothin'  o'  poor 
Heron  after  she  'd  once  got  him." 

"  That 's  often  the  way,"  said  I,  with  harsh 
cynicism,  though  I  had  no  guilty  person  in 


THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY.       67 

my  mind  at  the  moment ;  and  we  went  stray 
ing  off,  not  very  far  apart,  up  through  the 
pasture.  Mrs.  Goodsoe  cautioned  me  that 
we  must  not  get  so  far  off  that  we  could  not 
get  back  the  same  day.  The  sunshine  began 
to  feel  very  hot  on  our  backs,  and  we  both 
turned  toward  the  shade.  We  had  already 
collected  a  large  bundle  of  mullein  leaves, 
which  were  carefully  laid  into  a  clean,  calico 
apron,  held  together  by  the  four  corners,  and 
proudly  carried  by  me,  though  my  compan 
ion  regarded  them  with  anxious  eyes.  We 
sat  down  together  at  the  edge  of  the  pine 
woods,  and  Mrs.  Goodsoe  proceeded  to  fan 
herself  with  her  limp  cape-bonnet. 

"  I  declare,  how  hot  it  is  !  The  east  wind 's 
all  gone  again,"  she  said.  "  It  felt  so  cool 
this  forenoon  that  I  overburdened  myself 
with  as  thick  a  petticoat  as  any  I  've  got.  I  'm 
despri't  afeared  of  having  a  chill,  now  that  I 
ain't  so  young  as  once.  I  hate  to  be  housed 
up." 

"  It 's  only  August,  after  all,"  I  assured 
her  unnecessarily,  confirming  my  statement 
by  taking  two  peaches  out  of  my  pocket,  and 
laying  them  side  by  side  on  the  brown  pine 
needles  between  us. 

44  Dear  sakes  alive !  "  exclaimed  the   old 


68       THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  W1SBY. 

lady,  with  evident  pleasure.  "  Where  did 
you  get  them,  now  ?  Does  n't  anything  taste 
twice  better  out-o'-doors  ?  I  ain't  had  such  a 
peach  for  years.  Do  le's  keep  the  stones, 
an'  I  '11  plant  'em  ;  it  only  takes  four  year  for 
a  peach  pit  to  come  to  bearing,  an'  I  guess 
I  'm  good  for  four  year,  'thout  I  meet  with 
some  accident." 

I  could  not  help  agreeing,  or  taking  a  fond 
look  at  the  thin  little  figure,  and  her  wrinkled 
brown  face  and  kind,  twinkling  eyes.  She 
looked  as  if  she  had  properly  dried  herself, 
by  mistake,  with  some  of  her  mullein  leaves, 
and  was  likely  to  keep  her  goodness,  and  to 
last  the  longer  in  consequence.  There  never 
was  a  truer,  simple-hearted  soul  made  out 
of  the  old-fashioned  country  dust  than  Mrs. 
Goodsoe.  I  thought,  as  I  looked  away  from 
her  across  the  wide  country,  that  nobody  was 
left  in  any  of  the  farm-houses  so  original,  so 
full  of  rural  wisdom  and  reminiscence,  so 
really  able  and  dependable,  as  she.  And 
nobody  had  made  better  use  of  her  time  in 
a  world  foolish  enough  to  sometimes  under 
value  medicinal  herbs. 

When  we  had  eaten  our  peaches  we  still 
sat  under  the  pines,  and  I  was  not  without 
pride  when  I  had  poked  about  in  the  ground 


THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY.      69 

with  a  little  twig,  and  displayed  to  my 
crony  a  long  fine  root,  bright  yellow  to  the 
eye,  and  a  wholesome  bitter  to  the  taste. 

"Yis,  dear,  goldthread,"  she  assented  in 
dulgently.  "  Seems  to  me  there 's  more  of 
it  than  anything  except  grass  an'  hardhack. 
Good  for  canker,  but  no  better  than  two  or 
three  other  things  I  can  call  to  mind ;  but  I 
always  lay  in  a  good  wisp  of  it,  for  old 
times'  sake.  Now,  I  want  to  know  why  you 
should  a  bit  it,  and  took  away  all  the  taste 
o'  your  nice  peach?  I  was  just  thinkin' 
what  a  han'some  entertainment  we  've  had. 
I  've  got  so  I  'sociate  certain  things  with 
certain  folks,  and  goldthread  was  somethin' 
Lizy  Wisby  could  n't  keep  house  without, 
no  ways  whatever.  I  believe  she  took  so 
much  it  kind  o'  puckered  her  disposition." 

"  Lizy  Wisby  ?  "  I  repeated  inquiringly. 

"  You  knew  her,  if  ever,  by  the  name  of 
Mis'  Deacon  Brimblecom,"  answered  my 
friend,  as  if  this  were  only  a  brief  preface 
to  further  information,  so  I  waited  with 
respectful  expectation.  Mrs.  Goodsoe  had 
grown  tired  out  in  the  sun,  and  a  good  story 
would  be  an  excuse  for  sufficient  rest.  It 
was  a  most  lovely  place  where  we  sat,  half 
way  up  the  long  hillside ;  for  my  part,  I  was 


70      THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

perfectly  contented  and  happy.  "  You  Ve 
often  heard  of  Deacon  Brimblecom  ?  "  she 
asked,  as  if  a  great  deal  depended  upon  his 
being  properly  introduced. 

"  I  remember  him,"  said  I.  "  They 
called  him  Deacon  Brimfull,  you  know,  and 
he  used  to  go  about  with  a  witch-hazel 
branch  to  show  people  where  to  dig  wells." 

"  That 's  the  one,"  said  Mrs.  Goodsoe, 
laughing.  "  I  did  n't  know 's  you  could  go 
so  far  back.  I  'm  always  divided  between 
whether  you  can  remember  everything  I 
can,  or  are  only  a  babe  in  arms." 

"  I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  there  being 
something  strange  about  their  marriage,"  I 
suggested,  after  a  pause,  which  began  to  ap 
pear  dangerous.  I  was  so  much  afraid  the 
subject  would  be  changed. 

"  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it,"  I  was 
quickly  answered.  "  Deacon  Brimblecom 
was  very  pious  accordin'  to  his  lights  in  his 
early  years.  He  lived  way  back  in  the 
country  then,  and  there  come  a  rovin' 
preacher  along,  and  set  everybody  up  that 
way  all  by  the  ears.  I  've  heard  the  old 
folks  talk  it  over,  but  I  forget  most  of  his 
doctrine,  except  some  of  his  followers  was 
persuaded  they  could  dwell  among  the  an- 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY.       71 

gels  while  yet  on  airth,  and  this  Deacon 
Brimfull,  as  you  call  him,  felt  sure  he  was 
called  by  the  voice  of  a  spirit  bride.  So 
he  left  a  good,  deservin'  wife  he  had,  an' 
four  children,  and  built  him  a  new  house 
over  to  the  other  side  of  the  land  he  'd  had 
from  his  father.  They  didn't  take  much 
pains  with  the  buildin',  because  they  ex 
pected  to  be  translated  before  long,  and 
then  the  spirit  brides  and  them  folks  was 
goin'  to  appear  and  divide  up  the  airth 
amongst  'em,  and  the  world's  folks  and  on- 
believers  was  goin'  to  serve  'em  or  be  sent 
to  torments.  They  had  meetins  about  in 
the  school-houses,  an'  all  sorts  o'  goins  on  ; 
some  on  'em  went  crazy,  but  the  deacon  held 
on  to  what  wits  he  had,  an'  by  an'  by  the 
spirit  bride  did  n't  turn  out  to  be  much  of 
a  housekeeper,  an'  he  had  always  been  used 
to  good  livin',  so  he  sneaked  home  ag'in. 
One  o'  mother's  sisters  married  up  to  Ash 
Hill,  where  it  all  took  place  ;  that 's  how  I 
come  to  have  the  particulars." 

"  Then  how  did  he  come  to  find  his  Eliza 
Wisby?"  I  inquired.  "Do  tell  me  the 
whole  story ;  you  've  got  mullein  leaves 
enough." 

"  There 's  all  yisterday's   at   home,  if  I 


72      THE   COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

haven't,"  replied  Mrs.  Goodsoe.  "The 
way  he  come  a-courtin'  o'  Sister  Wisby  was 
this :  she  went  a-courtin'  o'  him. 

"  There  was  a  spell  he  lived  to  home,  and 
then  his  poor  wife  died,  and  he  had  a  spirit 
bride  in  good  earnest,  an'  the  child'n  was 
placed  about  with  his  folks  and  hers,  for 
they  was  both  out  o'  good  families  ;  and  I 
don't  know  what  come  over  him,  but  he  had 
another  pious  fit  that  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  the  real  thing.  He  had  n't  no 
family  cares,  and  he  lived  with  his  brother's 
folks,  and  turned  his  land  in  with  theirs. 
He  used  to  travel  to  every  meetin'  an'  con 
ference  that  was  within  reach  of  his  old  sor 
rel  hoss's  feeble  legs ;  he  j'ined  the  Christian 
Baptists  that  was  just  in  their  early  prime, 
and  he  was  a  great  exhorter,  and  got  to  be 
called  deacon,  though  I  guess  he  wa'n't  dea 
con,  'less  it  was  for  a  spare  hand  when  dea 
con  timber  was  scercer'n  usual.  An'  one 
time  there  was  a  four  days'  protracted 
meetin'  to  the  church  in  the  lower  part  of 
the  town.  'T  was  a  real  solemn  time  ;  some 
thing  more'n  usual  was  goin'  forward,  an' 
they  collected  from  the  whole  country  round. 
Women  folks  liked  it,  an'  the  men  too ;  it 
give  'em  a  change,  an'  they  was  quartered 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY.      73 

round  free,  same  as  conference  folks  now. 
Some  on  'em,  for  a  joke,  sent  Silas  Brim- 
blecom  up  to  Lizy  Wisby's,  though  she  'd 
give  out  she  could  n't  accommodate  nobody, 
because  of  expectin'  her  cousin's  folks. 
Everybody  knew  't  was  a  lie ;  she  was 
amazin'  close  considerin'  she  had  plenty  to 
do  with.  There  was  a  streak  that  wa'n't 
just  right  somewheres  in  Lizy's  wits,  I  al 
ways  thought.  She  was  very  kind  in  case  o' 
sickness,  I  '11  say  that  for  her. 

"  You  know  where  the  house  is,  over  there 
on  what  they  call  Windy  Hill  ?  There  the 
deacon  went,  all  unsuspectin' ,  and  'stead  o' 
Lizy  's  resentin'  of  him  she  put  in  her  own 
hoss,  and  they  come  back  together  to  evenin' 
meetin'.  She  was  prominent  among  the 
sect  herself,  an'  he  bawled  and  talked,  and 
she  bawled  and  talked,  an'  took  up  more  'n 
the  time  allotted  in  the  exercises,  just  as  if 
they  was  showin'  off  to  each  other  what  they 
was  able  to  do  at  expoundin'.  Everybody 
was  laughin'  at  'em  after  the  meetin'  broke 
up,  and  that  next  day  an'  the  next,  an'  all 
through,  they  was  constant,  and  seemed  to 
be  havin'  a  beautiful  occasion.  Lizy  had 
always  give  out  she  scorned  the  men,  but 
when  she  got  a  chance  at  a  particular  one 


74       THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

'twas  altogether  different,  and  the  deacon 
seemed  to  please  her  somehow  or  'nother, 
and  —  There  !  you  don't  want  to  listen  to 
this  old  stuff  that 's  past  an'  gone  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do,"  said  I. 

"  I  run  on  like  a  clock  that 's  onset  her 
striking  hand,"  said  Mrs.  Goodsoe  mildly. 
"  Sometimes  my  kitchen  timepiece  goes  on 
half  the  forenoon,  and  I  says  to  myself  the 
day  before  yisterday  I  would  let  it  be  a 
warnin',  and  keep  it  in  mind  for  a  check  on 
my  own  speech.  The  next  news  that  was 
heard  was  that  the  deacon  an'  Lizy  —  well, 
opinions  differed  which  of  'em  had  spoke 
first,  but  them  fools  settled  it  before  the 
protracted  meetin'  was  over,  and  give  away 
their  hearts  before  he  started  for  home. 
They  considered  't  would  be  wise,  though, 
considerin'  their  short  acquaintance,  to  take 
one  another  on  trial  a  spell ;  't  was  Lizy's 
notion,  and  she  asked  him  why  he  would  n't 
come  over  and  stop  with  her  till  spring,  and 
then,  if  they  both  continued  to  like,  they 
could  git  married  any  time  't  was  convenient. 
Lizy,  she  come  and  talked  it  over  with 
mother,  and  mother  disliked  to  offend  her, 
but  she  spoke  pretty  plain  ;  and  Lizy  felt 
hurt,  an'  thought  they  was  showin'  excellent 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY.       75 

judgment,  so  much  harm  come  from  hasty 
unions  and  folks  comin'  to  a  realizin'  sense 
of  each  other's  failin's  when  't  was  too  late. 

"  So  one  day  our  folks  saw  Deacon  Brim- 
full  a-ridin'  by  with  a  gre't  coopful  of  hens 
in  the  back  o'  his  wagon,  and  bundles  o' 
stuff  tied  on  top  and  hitched  to  the  exes 
underneath ;  and  he  riz  a  hymn  just  as  he 
passed  the  house,  and  was  speedin'  the  old 
sorrel  with  a  wilier  switch.  'T  was  most 
Thanksgivin'  time,  an'  sooner  'n  she  ex 
pected  him.  New  Year's  was  the  time  she 
set ;  but  he  thought  he  'd  better  come  while 
the  roads  was  fit  for  wheels.  They  was  out 
to  meetin'  together  Thanksgivin'  Day,  an' 
that  used  to  be  a  gre't  season  for  marryin'  ; 
so  the  young  folks  nudged  each  other,  and 
some  on'  'em  ventured  to  speak  to  the  couple 
as  they  come  down  the  aisle.  Lizy  carried 
it  off  real  well ;  she  wa'n't  afraid  o'  what 
nobody  said  or  thought,  and  so  home  they 
went.  They  'd  got  out  her  yaller  sleigh  and 
her  hoss  ;  she  never  would  ride  after  the 
deacon's  poor  old  creatiir',  and  I  believe  it 
died  long  o'  the  winter  from  stiffenin'  up. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Goodsoe  emphatically, 
after  we  had  silently  considered  the  situa 
tion  for  a  short  space  of  time,  —  "  yes,  there 


76       THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISB7. 

was  consider'ble  talk,  now  I  tell  you  !  The 
raskil  boys  pestered  'em  just  about  to  death 
for  a  while.  They  used  to  collect  up  there 
an'  rap  on  the  winders,  and  they  'd  turn  out 
all  the  deacon's  hens  'long  at  nine  o'clock 
'o  night,  and  chase  'em  all  over  the  dingle ; 
an'  one  night  they  even  lugged  the  pig  right 
out  o'  the  sty,  and  shoved  it  into  the  back 
entry,  an'  run  for  their  lives.  They  'd  stuffed 
its  mouth  full  o'  something  so  it  could  n't 
squeal  till  it  got  there.  There  wa'ii't  a 
sign  o'  nobody  to  be  seen  when  Lizy  hasted 
out  with  the  light,  and  she  an'  the  deacon 
had  to  persuade  the  creatur'  back  as  best 
they  could  ;  't  was  a  cold  night,  and  they 
said  it  took  'em  till  towards  mornin'.  You 
see  the  deacon  was  just  the  kind  of  a  man 
that  a  hog  would  n't  budge  for  ;  it  takes  a 
masterful  man  to  deal  with  a  hog.  Well, 
there  was  no  end  to  the  works  nor  the  talk, 
but  Lizy  left  'em  pretty  much  alone.  She 
did  'pear  kind  of  dignified  about  it,  I  must 
say!" 

"And  then,  were  they  married  in  the 
spring?  " 

"  I  was  tryin'  to  remember  whether  it  was 
just  before  Fast  Day  or  just  after,"  re 
sponded  my  friend,  with  a  careful  look  at 


THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY.       11 

the  sun,  which  was  nearer  the  west  than 
either  of  us  had  noticed.  "  I  think  likely 
't  was  along  in  the  last  o'  April,  any  way 
some  of  us  looked  out  o'  the  window  one 
Monday  mornin'  early,  and  says,  'For  good 
ness'  sake !  Lizy  's  sent  the  deacon  home 
again ! '  His  old  sorrel  havin'  passed  away, 
he  was  ridin'  in  Ezry  Welsh's  hoss-cart, 
with  his  hen-coop  and  more  bundles  than 
he  had  when  he  come,  and  he  looked  as 
meechin'  as  ever  you  see.  Ezry  was  drivin', 
and  he  let  a  glance  fly  swiftly  round  to  see 
if  any  of  us  was  lookin'  out ;  an'  then  I 
declare  if  he  did  n't  have  the  malice  to  turn 
right  in  towards  the  barn,  where  he  see  my 
oldest  brother,  Joshuay,  an'  says  he  real  nat 
ural,  '  Joshuay,  just  step  out  with  your 
wrench.  I  believe  I  hear  my  kingbolt  rat- 
tlin'  kind  o'  loose.'  Brother,  he  went  out 
an'  took  in  the  sitooation,  an'  the  deacon 
bowed  kind  of  stiff.  Joshuay  was  so  full  o' 
laugh,  and  Ezry  Welsh,  that  they  could  n't 
look  one  another  in  the  face.  There  wa'n't 
nothing  ailed  the  kingbolt,  you  know,  an' 
when  Josh  riz  up  he  says,  '  Goin'  up  coun 
try  for  a  spell,  Mr.  Brimblecom  ? ' 

"  '  I  be,'  says  the  deacon,  lookin'  dreadful 
mortified  and  cast  down. 


78       THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

" '  Ain't  things  turned  out  well  with  you 
an'  Sister  Wisby?'  says  Joshuay.  'You 
had  ought  to  remember  that  the  woman  is 
the  weaker  vessel.' 

" '  Hang  her,  let  her  carry  less  sail, 
then ! '  the  deacon  bu'st  out,  and  he  stood 
right  up  an'  shook  his  fist  there  by  the  hen 
coop,  he  was  so  mad ;  an'  Ezry's  hoss  was 
a  young  creatur',  an'  started  up  an  set  the 
deacon  right  over  backwards  into  the  chips. 
We  did  n't  know  but  he  'd  broke  his  neck  ; 
but  when  he  see  the  women  folks  runnin' 
out,  he  jumped  up  quick  as  a  cat,  an'  clim' 
into  the  cart,  an'  off  they  went.  Ezry  said 
he  told  him  that  he  could  n't  git  along 
with  Lizy,  she  was  so  fractious  in  thundery 
weather ;  if  there  was  a  rumble  in  the  day 
time  she  must  go  right  to  bed  an'  screech, 
and  if  't  was  night  she  must  git  right  up  an' 
go  an'  call  him  out  of  a  sound  sleep.  But 
everybody  knew  he  'd  never  a  gone  home 
unless  she  'd  sent  him. 

"  Somehow  they  made  it  up  agin  right 
away,  him  an'  Lizy,  and  she  had  him  back. 
She  'd  been  countin'  all  along  on  not  havin' 
to  hire  nobody  to  work  about  the  gardin  an* 
so  on,  an'  she  said  she  wa'n't  goin'  to  let  him 
have  a  whole  winter's  board  for  nothin'.  So 


THE  COURTING   OF  SISTER   WISBY.       79 

the  old  hens  was  moved  back,  and  they  was 
married  right  off  fair  an'  square,  an'  I  don't 
know  but  they  got  along  well  as  most  folks. 
He  brought  his  youngest  girl  down  to  live 
with  'em  after  a  while,  an'  she  was  a  real 
treasure  to  Lizy;  everybody  spoke  well  o' 
Phebe  Brimblecom.  The  deacon  got  over 
his  pious  fit,  and  there  was  consider'ble 
work  in  him  if  you  kept  right  after  him. 
He  was  an  amazin'  cider-drinker,  and  he 
airnt  the  name  you  know  him  by  in  his  latter 
days.  Lizy  never  trusted  him  with  nothin', 
but  she  kep'  him  well.  She  left  everything 
she  owned  to  Phebe,  when  she  died,  'cept 
somethin'  to  satisfy  the  law.  There,  they  're 
all  gone  now  :  seems  to  me  sometimes,  when 
I  get  thiiikin,'  as  if  I  'd  lived  a  thousand 
years !  " 

I  laughed,  but  I  found  that  Mrs.  Good- 
soe's  thoughts  had  taken  a  serious  turn. 

"  There,  I  come  by  some  old  graves  down 
here  in  the  lower  edge  of  the  pasture,"  she 
said  as  we  rose  to  go.  "  I  could  n't  help 
thinking  how  I  should  like  to  be  laid  right 
out  in  the  pasture  ground,  when  my  time 
comes ;  it  looked  sort  o'  comfortable,  and  I 
have  ranged  these  slopes  so  many  summers. 
Seems  as  if  I  could  see  right  up  through  the 


80        THE  COURTING  OF  SISTER  WISBY. 

turf  and  tell  when  the  weather  was  pleasant, 
and  get  the  goodness  o'  the  sweet  fern. 
Now,  dear,  just  hand  me  my  apernful  o' 
mulleins  out  o'  the  shade.  I  hope  you  won't 
come  to  need  none  this  winter,  but  I  '11  dry 
some  special  for  you." 

"  I  'm  going  home  by  the  road,"  said  I, 
"  or  else  by  the  path  across  the  meadows,  so 
I  will  walk  as  far  as  the  house  with  you. 
Are  n't  you  pleased  with  my  company?" 
for  she  demurred  at  my  going  the  least  bit 
out  of  the  way. 

So  we  strolled  toward  the  little  gray 
house,  with  our  plunder  of  mullein  leaves 
slung  on  a  stick  which  we  carried  between 
us.  Of  course  I  went  in  to  make  a  call,  as 
if  I  had  not  seen  my  hostess  before  ;  she  is 
the  last  maker  of  muster-gingerbread,  and 
before  I  came  away  I  was  kindly  measured 
for  a  pair  of  mittens. 

"  You  '11  be  sure  to  come  an'  see  them  two 
peach-trees  after  I  get  'em  well  growin'  ? " 
Mrs.  Goodsoe  called  after  me  when  I  had 
said  good-by,  and  was  almost  out  of  hearing 
down  the  road. 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 


I. 

I  WAS  tired  of  ordinary  journeys,  which 
involved  either  the  loneliness  and  discomfort 
of  fashionable  hotels,  or  the  responsibilities 
of  a  guest  in  busy  houses.  One  is  always 
doing  the  same  things  over  and  over ;  I  now 
promised  myself  that  I  would  go  in  search 
of  new  people  and  new  scenes,  until  I  was 
again  ready  to  turn  with  delight  to  my  fa 
miliar  occupations.  So  I  mounted  my  horse 
one  morning,  without  any  definite  plan  of 
my  journey,  and  rode  eastward,  with  a 
business-like  haversack  strapped  behind  the 
saddle.  I  only  wished  that  the  first  day's 
well-known  length  of  road  had  been  already 
put  behind  me.  One  drawback  to  a  woman's 
enjoyment  of  an  excursion  of  this  sort  is  the 
fact  that  when  she  is  out  of  the  saddle  she 
is  uncomfortably  dressed.  But  I  compro 
mised  matters  as  nearly  as  possible  by  wear- 


82  THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

ing  a  short  corduroy  habit,  light  both  in  color 
and  weight,  and  putting  a  linen  blouse  and 
belt  into  my  pack,  to  replace  the  stiff  habit- 
waist.  The  wallet  on  the  saddle  held  a  flat 
drinking-cup,  a  bit  of  chocolate,  and  a  few 
hard  biscuit,  for  provision  against  improb 
able  famine.  Autumn  would  be  the  best 
time  for  such  a  journey,  if  the  evenings  need 
not  be  so  often  spent  in  stuffy  rooms,  with 
kerosene  lamps  for  company.  This  was 
early  summer,  and  I  had  long  days  in  which 
to  amuse  myself.  For  a  book  I  took  a 
much  -  beloved  small  copy  of  "  The  Senti 
mental  Journey." 

After  I  left  my  own  neighborhood  I  was 
looked  at  with  curious  eyes.  I  was  now  and 
then  recognized  with  surprise,  but  oftener 
viewed  with  suspicion,  as  if  I  were  a  crim 
inal  escaping  from  justice.  The  keepers  of 
the  two  country  taverns  at  which  I  rested 
questioned  me  outright,  until  I  gave  a  re 
assuring  account  of  myself.  Through  the 
middle  of  the  day  I  let  the  horse  stand  un 
saddled  in  the  shade,  by  the  roadside,  while 
I  sat  near,  leaning  against  the  broad  trunk 
of  a  tree,  and  ate  a  bit  of  luncheon,  or  slept, 
or  read  my  book,  or  strolled  away  up  the 
shore  of  a  brook  or  to  the  top  of  a  hill.  On 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.      83 

the  third  or  fourth  day  I  left  my  faithful 
companion  so  long  that  he  grew  restless,  and 
at  last  fearful,  as  .petted  horses  will.  The 
silence  and  strangeness  of  the  place  and  my 
disappearance  frightened  him.  When  I  re 
turned,  I  found  that  the  poor  creature  had 
twisted  a  forward  shoe  so  badly  that  I  could 
neither  pull  it  off  altogether,  nor  mount 
again.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
lead  him  slowly  to  some  farm-house,  where 
I  could  get  assistance ;  so  on  went  the 
saddle,  and  away  we  plodded  together  sadly 
along  the  dusty  road.  The  horse  looked  at 
me  with  anxious  eyes,  and  was  made  fretful 
by  the  difficulty  of  the  projecting  shoe.  I 
should  have  provided  myself  with  some  pin 
cers,  he  seemed  to  tell  me  ;  the  foot  was 
aching  from  the  blows  I  had  given  it  with 
a  rough-edged  stone  in  trying  to  draw  the 
tenacious  nails.  It  was  all  my  fault,  having 
left  him  in  such  a  desolate  place,  fastened  to 
a  tree  that  grew  against  a  creviced  ledge  of 
rock.  We  were  both  a  little  sulky  at  this 
mischance  so  early  in  the  careless  expedition. 
The  sea  was  near,  and  the  salt-marshes 
penetrated  deep  into  the  country,  like  aban 
doned  beds  of  rivers  winding  inland  among 
the  pine  woods  and  upland  pastures.  The 


84      THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

higher  land  separated  these  marshes,  like  a 
succession  of  low  promontories  trending  sea 
ward,  and  the  road  climbed  and  crossed  over 
from  one  low  valley  to  another.  There  had 
been  no  houses  for  some  distance  behind  us. 
I  knew  that  there  was  a  village  with  a  good 
tavern  a  few  miles  ahead  ;  so  far,  indeed, 
that  I  had  planned  to  reach  it  at  sundown. 
I  began  to  feel  very  tired,  and  the  horse 
tossed  his  head  more  and  more  impatiently, 
resenting  my  anxious,  dragging  hold  upon 
the  rein  close  at  his  mouth.  There  was  no 
body  to  be  seen;  the  hills  became  steeper, 
the  unshaded  strips  of  marshland  seemed 
hotter,  and  I  determined  at  last  to  wait  until 
some  traveler  appeared  who  could  give  us 
assistance.  Perhaps  the  blacksmith  himself 
might  be  out  adventuring  that  afternoon. 

We  halted  by  some  pasture  bars  in  the 
shade  of  an  old  cider-apple  tree,  and  I  threw 
the  bridle  over  a  leaning  post  in  the  un 
steady  fence ;  and  there  the  horse  and  I 
waited,  and  looked  at  each  other  reproach 
fully.  It  was  some  time  before  I  discovered 
a  large  rusty  nail  lying  in  the  short  grass, 
within  reach  of  my  hand.  My  pocket-knife 
was  already  broken,  because  I  had  tried  to 
use  it  for  a  lever,  and  this  was  just  what  I 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.      85 

needed.  I  quickly  caught  up  the  disabled 
hoof  again,  and  with  careful  prying  the 
tough  nails  loosed  their  hold  at  last,  and  the 
bent  shoe  dropped  with  a  clink.  The  horse 
gave  a  whinny  of  evident  relief,  and  seemed 
to  respect  me  again,  and  I  was  ready  to 
mount  at  once  ;  in  an  instant  life  lost  its 
depressing  aspect.  "  Keep  your  feet  out  of 
clefts  now  !  "  I  said  joyfully,  with  a  friendly 
stroke  of  the  good  creature's  neck  and  tan 
gled  mane,  and  a  moment  afterward  we  were 
back  in  the  stony  road.  Alas,  the  foot  had 
been  strained,  and  our  long  halt  had  only 
stiffened  it.  I  was  mounted  on  three  feet, 
not  four.  Nothing  was  to  be  done  but  to 
go  forward,  step  by  step,  to  the  far-away 
village,  or  to  any  friendly  shelter  this  side 
of  it. 

The  afternoon  was  waning:  sometimes  I 
rode,  sometimes  I  walked ;  those  three  miles 
of  marsh  and  hill  seemed  interminable.  At 
last  I  saw  the  chimneys  of  a  house ;  the 
horse  raised  his  head  high,  and  whinnied 
loud  and  long. 

These  chimneys  were  most  reassuring; 
being  high  and  square,  they  evidently  be 
longed  to  a  comfortable  house  of  the  last 
century,  and  my  spirits  rose  again.  The 


86  THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

country  was  still  abandoned  by  human 
beings.  I  had  seen  no  one  since  noon,  but 
the  road  was  little  used,  and  was  undoubt 
edly  no  longer  the  main  highway  of  that 
region.  I  wondered  what  impression  I 
should  make  in  such  a  migratory  guise.  The 
saddle  and  its  well-stuffed  haversack  and 
iny  own  dustiness  amused  me  unexpectedly, 
and  I  understood  for  the  first  time  that  the 
rest  and  change  of  this  solitary  excursion 
had  done  me  much  good.  I  was  no  longer 
listless  and  uninterested,  but  ready  for  ad 
venture  of  any  sort.  It  had  been  a  most 
sensible  thing  to  go  wandering  alone  through 
the  country.  But  now  the  horse's  ankle  was 
swollen.  I  grew  anxious  again,  and  looked 
at  the  chimneys  with  relief.  Presently  I 
came  in  sight  of  the  house. 

It  was  disappointing,  for  the  first  view 
gave  an  impression  of  dreariness  and  neg 
lect.  The  barn  and  straggling  row  of  out 
buildings  were  leaning  this  way  and  that, 
mossy  and  warped  ;  the  blinds  of  the  once 
handsome  house  were  broken ;  and  every 
thing  gave  evidence  of  unhindered  decline 
from  thrift  and  competence  to  poverty  and 
ruin.  A  good  colonial  mansion,  I  thought, 
abandoned  by  its  former  owners,  and  ten- 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.      87 

anted  now  by  some  shiftless  outcasts  of 
society,  who  ask  but  meagre  comfort,  and 
are  indifferent  to  the  decencies  of  life.  Full 
of  uncertainty,  I  went  along  the  approach 
to  the  barn,  noticing,  however,  with  surprise 
that  the  front  yard  had  been  carefully 
tended  ;  there  were  some  dark  crimson  roses 
in  bloom,  and  broken  lines  of  box  which  had 
been  carefully  clipped  at  no  remote  period. 
Nobody  was  in  sight.  I  went  to  the  side 
door,  and  gave  a  knock  with  my  whip  at 
arm's  length,  for  the  horse  was  eager  to 
reach  the  uninviting,  hungry-looking  stable. 
Some  time  elapsed  before  my  repeated  sum 
mons  were  answered  ;  then  the  door  slowly 
opened,  and  a  woman  just  this  side  of  mid 
dle  age  stood  before  me,  waiting  to  hear  my 
errand.  She  had  a  pathetic  look,  as  if  she 
were  forced  by  circumstances  to  deny  all 
requests,  however  her  own  impulses  might 
lead  her  toward  generosity.  I  was  instantly 
drawn  toward  her,  in  warm  sympathy  :  the 
blooming  garden  was  hers  ;  she  was  very 
poor.  I  would  plead  my  real  fatigue,  and 
ask  for  a  night's  lodging,  and  perhaps  my 
holiday  might  also  give  her  pleasure.  But 
a  curious  hardness  drew  her  face  into  for 
bidding  angles,  even  as  her  sweet  and  wo- 


88      THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

manly  eyes  watched  me  with  surprised  curi 
osity. 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  take  the  horse 
any  farther  to-day,"  said  I,  after  stating  my 
appealing  case.  "  I  will  give  you  as  little 
trouble  as  possible."  At  this  moment  the 
haggard  face  of  an  elderly  man  peered  at 
me  over  her  shoulder. 

"  We  don't  keep  tavern,  young  lady,"  he 
announced,  in  an  unexpectedly  musical,  low 
voice,  "  but  since  your  horse  is  "  — 

"  I  am  ready  to  pay  any  price  you  ask,"  I 
interrupted,  impatiently  ;  and  he  gave  me  an 
eager  look  and  then  came  to  the  outer  step, 
ignoring  both  his  daughter  and  me,  as  he 
touched  the  horse  with  real  kindliness.  "  'T  is 
a  pretty  creature  !  "  he  said,  admiringly,  and 
at  once  stooped  stiffly  down  to  examine  the 
lifted  foot.  I  explained  the  accident  in  de 
tail,  grateful  for  such  intelligent  sympathy, 
while  he  stroked  the  lamed  ankle. 

"  There 's  no  damage  done,"  he  assured 
me  presently,  looking  up  with  transient  self- 
forgetfulness.  "  A  common  liniment  will 
do  ;  there 's  a  bottle  in  the  house,  but  *t  will 
cost  you  something,"  and  his  face  clouded 
again. 

I  turned  to  the  daughter,  who  gave  me  a 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.      89 

strange,  appealing  look.  Her  eyes  begged 
me  entreatingly,  "  Give  him  his  own  way ;  " 
her  firm-set  mouth  signified  her  assent  to  the 
idea  that  I  had  no  right  to  demand  favors. 

"Do  what  you  think  best,"  I  said,  "  at 
your  own  price.  I  shall  be  very  grateful  to 
you ;  "  and  having  come  to  this  understand 
ing,  the  father  and  I  unbuckled  the  saddle- 
girths,  while  the  daughter  stood  watching  us. 
The  old  man  led  the  limping  horse  across  the 
green  dooryard  to  a  weather-beaten  stable, 
talking  to  him  in  a  low  tone.  The  creature 
responded  by  unusual  docility.  I  even  saw 
him,  though  usually  so  suspicious  and  fretful 
with  strangers,  put  his  head  close  to  his 
leader's  shoulder  with  most  affectionate  im 
pulse.  I  gathered  up  my  belongings,  —  my 
needments,  as  somebody  had  called  them, 
after  Spenser's  fashion,  in  the  morning,  — 
and  entered  the  door. 


II. 

Along  the  by-ways  and  in  the  elder  vil 
lages  of  New  England  stand  many  houses 
like  this,  from  which  life  and  vigor  have 
long  been  ebbing,  until  all  instincts  of  self- 
preservation  seem  to  have  departed.  The 


90      THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

commonplace,  thrifty  fears  of  increasing 
damage  from  cracks,  or  leaks,  or  falling  plas 
ter  no  longer  give  alarm ;  as  age  creeps 
through  the  human  frame,  pilfering  the  pleas 
ures  of  enthusiasm  and  activity  one  by  one, 
so  it  is  with  a  decaying  house.  The  old 
man's  shrewd  eyes  alone  seemed  unrelated 
to  his  surroundings.  What  sorrow  or  mis 
fortune  had  made  him  accept  them  ?  I  won 
dered,  as  I  stared  about  the  once  elegant 
room.  Nothing  new  had  been  brought  to  it 
for  years;  the  leather-bound  books  in  the 
carved  secretary  might  have  belonged  to  his 
grandfather.  The  floor  was  carpetless  and 
deeply  worn ;  the  faded  paper  on  the  walls 
and  the  very  paint  looked  as  old  as  he.  The 
pinch  of  poverty  could  nowhere  be  much 
sharper  than  here,  but  the  exquisite  cleanness 
and  order  of  the  place  made  one  ignore  the 
thought  of  poverty  in  its  common  aspect,  for 
all  its  offensive  and  repulsive  qualities  were 
absent.  I  sat  down  in  a  straight-backed  ma 
hogany  chair,  feeling  much  relieved,  and  not 
without  gratitude  for  this  unexpected  epi 
sode.  The  hostess  left  me  alone.  I  was  glad 
enough  to  have  the  long  day  shortened  a  lit 
tle,  and  to  find  myself  in  this  lonely,  mys 
terious  house.  I  was  pleased  by  the  thought 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.  91 

that  the  price  of  my  food  and  lodging  would 
be  very  welcome,  and  I  grew  more  and  more 
eager  to  know  the  history  of  my  new  friends. 
I  have  never  been  conscious  of  a  more  in 
tense  desire  to  make  myself  harmonious,  or 
to  win  some  degree  of  confidence.  And 
when  the  silence  of  the  old  sitting-room  grew 
tiresome  I  went  out  to  the  stable,  whence 
my  host  had  not  returned,  and  was  quite 
reconciled  at  finding  that  I  was  looked  upon 
by  him,  at  least,  merely  as  an  appendage  to 
my  four-footed  companion. 

The  old  man  regarded  me  with  indiffer 
ence,  and  went  on  patiently  rubbing  the 
horse's  foot.  I  was  silent  after  having  of 
fered  to  take  his  place  and  being  contemptu 
ously  refused.  His  clothes  were  curiously 
old  and  worn,  patched  bravely,  and  an  em 
broidery  of  careful  darns.  The  color  of 
them  was  not  unlike  the  dusty  gray  of  long- 
neglected  cobwebs.  There  was  unusual  deli 
cacy  and  refinement  in  his  hands  and  feet, 
and  I  was  sure,  from  the  first  glance  at  my 
new  friends  and  the  first  sound  of  their 
voices,  that  they  had  inherited  gentle  blood, 
though  such  an  inheritance  had  evidently 
come  through  more  than  one  generation  to 
whom  had  been  sternly  denied  any  approach 


92  THE  LANDSCAPE   CHAMBER. 

to  luxury  or  social  advantage.  I  have  often 
noticed  in  country  villages  the  descendants 
of  those  clergymen  who  once  ruled  New 
England  sternly  and  well,  and  while  they 
may  be  men  and  women  of  undeveloped 
minds,  without  authority  and  even  of  hum 
ble  circumstances,  they  yet  bear  the  mark  of 
authority  and  dignified  behavior,  like  silver 
and  copper  coins  with  a  guinea  stamp. 

I  was  more  and  more  oppressed  by  the 
haunting  sense  of  poverty,  for  I  saw  proofs 
everywhere  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  old 
house  made  no  practical  protest  against  its 
slow  decay.  The  woman's  share  of  work 
was  performed  best,  as  one  might  see  by 
their  mended  clothes;  but  the  master's  do 
main  was  hopelessly  untended,  not  only  as  to 
the  rickety  buildings,  but  in  the  land  itself, 
which  was  growing  wild  bushes  at  its  own 
sweet  will,  except  for  a  rough  patch  near  the 
house,  which  had  been  dug  and  planted  that 
year.  Was  this  brooding,  sad  old  man  dis 
couraged  by  life?  Did  he  say  to  himself, 
"Let  things  be;  they  will  last  my  time"? 
I  found  myself  watching  his  face  with  in 
tense  interest,  but  I  did  not  dare  to  ask 
questions,  and  only  stood  and  watched  him. 
The  sad  mouth  of  the  man  might  have  been 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.      93 

a  den  from  which  stinging  wild  words  could 
assail  a  curious  stranger.  I  was  afraid  of 
what  he  might  say  to  me,  yet  I  longed  to 
hear  him  speak. 

The  summer  day  was  at  its  close.  I  moved 
a  step  forward  to  get  away  from  the  level 
sunbeams  which  dazzled  my  eyes,  and  ven 
tured  to  give  some  news  about  myself  and 
the  lonely  journey  that  had  hitherto  brought 
me  such  pleasure.  The  listener  looked  up 
with  sincere  attention,  which  made  me  grow 
enthusiastic  at  once,  and  I  described  my  va 
rious  experiences,  and  especially  the  amusing 
comments  which  I  had  heard  upon  my  mode 
of  traveling  about  the  country.  It  amazed 
me  to  think  that  I  was  within  sixty  miles  of 
home  and  yet  a  foreigner.  At  last  I  asked 
a  trivial  question  about  some  portion  of  the 
scenery,  which  was  pleasantly  answered.  The 
old  man's  voice  was  singularly  sweet  and 
varied  in  tone,  the  exact  reverse  of  a  New 
Englander's  voice  of  the  usual  rural  quality. 
I  was  half  startled  at  seeing  my  horse 
quickly  turn  his  head  to  look  at  the  speaker, 
as  if  with  human  curiosity  equal  to  my  own. 
I  felt  a  thrill  of  vague  apprehension.  I  was 
unwise  enough  for  a  moment  to  dread  taking 
up  my  residence  in  this  dilapidated  mansion; 


94      THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

a  creeping  horror,  such  as  one  feels  at  hear 
ing  footsteps  behind  one  in  a  dark,  strange 
place,  made  me  foolishly  uneasy,  and  I  stood 
looking  off  across  the  level  country  through 
the  golden  light  of  closing  day,  beyond  the 
marshes  and  beyond  the  sand  dunes  to  the 
sea.  What  had  happened  to  this  uncanny 
father  and  daughter,  that  they  were  con 
tented  to  let  the  chances  of  life  slip  by  un 
touched,  while  their  ancestral  dwelling  grad 
ually  made  itself  ready  to  tumble  about  their 
ears  ? 

I  could  see  that  the  horse's  foot  was  much 
better  already,  and  I  watched  with  great  sym 
pathy  the  way  that  the  compassionate,  pa 
tient  fingers  touched  and  soothed  the  bruised 
joint.  But  I  saw  no  sign  of  any  other  horse 
in  the  stable,  save  a  few  stiffened,  dusty  bits 
of  harness  hung  011  a  high  peg  in  the  wall ; 
and  as  I  looked  at  these,  and  renewed  my 
wonder  that  such  a  person  should  have  no 
horse  of  his  own,  especially  at  such  a  dis 
tance  from  any  town,  the  old  man  spoke 
again. 

"  Look  up  at  that  bit  of  dry  skin  over  the 
harnesses,"  said  he.  "  That  was  the  pretty 
ear  of  the  best  mare  that  ever  trod  these 
roads.  She  leaped  the  stable-yard  gate  one 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.  95 

day,  caught  her  foot  in  a  rope,  and  broke  her 
neck.  She  was  like  those  swallows  one  min 
ute,  and  the  next  she  was  a  heap  of  worthless 
flesh,  a  heavy  thing  to  be  dragged  away  and 
hidden  in  the  earth."  His  voice  failed  him 
suddenly,  poor  old  fellow ;  it  told  me  that 
he  had  suffered  cruel  sorrows  that  made 
this  loss  of  a  pleasure  almost  unbearable. 
So  far  life  had  often  brought  me  successes, 
and  I  had  gained  a  habit  of  expecting  my 
own  enterprises  to  be  lucky.  I  stood  ap 
palled  before  this  glimpse  of  a  defeated  life 
and  its  long  procession  of  griefs. 

Presently  the  master  of  the  place  went 
into  the  house,  and  returned  with  a  worn 
wooden  trencher  of  bits  of  hard  bread  and 
some  meal.  The  hungry  creature  in  the  stall 
whinnied  eagerly,  and  nestled  about,  while 
our  host  ascended  the  broken  stairway  to  the 
stable  loft ;  and  after  waiting  for  some  time, 
I  heard  the  rustle  of  an  armful  of  hay  which 
came  down  into  the  crib.  I  looked  that  way, 
and  was  not  surprised,  when  I  noticed  the 
faded,  dusty  dryness  of  it,  to  see  my  dainty 
beast  sniff  at  it  with  disappointment,  and 
look  round  at  me  inquiringly.  The  old  man 
joined  me,  and  I  protested  hastily  against 
such  treatment  of  my  favorite. 


96      THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

"  Cannot  we  get  somebody  to  bring  some 
better  hay,  and  oats  enough  for  a  day  or  two, 
if  you  are  unprovided  ?  "  I  asked. 

"The  creature  must  not  be  overfed,"  he 
said,  grudgingly,  with  a  new  harsh  tone. 
"  You  will  heat  the  foot,  and  we  must  keep 
the  beast  quiet.  Anything  will  serve  to 
night  ;  to-morrow  he  can  graze  all  day,  and 
keep  the  foot  moving  gently ;  next  day,  he 
can  be  shod." 

"  But  there  is  danger  in  giving  him  green 
grass,"  I  suggested.  "  This  is  too  rich  pas 
turage  about  the  house  ;  surely  you  know 
enough  of  horses  to  have  learned  that.  He 
will  not  be  fit  to  ride,  either.  If  I  meant  to 
give  him  a  month  of  pasture,  it  would  be 
another  thing.  No  ;  send  somebody  for  at 
least  an  armful  of  decent  hay.  I  will  go 
myself.  Are  there  houses  near?" 

The  old  man  had  gone  into  the  stall,  and 
was  feeding  the  hungry  horse  from  the 
trencher.  I  was  startled  to  see  him  snatch 
back  two  or  three  bits  of  the  bread  and 
put  them  into  his  pocket,  as  if,  with  all  his 
fondness  for  the  horse  and  a  sincere  desire 
to  make  him  comfortable,  he  nevertheless 
grudged  the  food.  I  became  convinced  that 
the  poor  soul  was  a  miser.  He  certainly 


THE  LANDSCAPE   CHAMBER.  97 

played  the  character  exactly,  and  yet  there 
was  an  appealing  look  in  his  eyes,  which, 
joined  with  the  tones  of  his  voice,  made  me 
sure  that  he  fought  against  his  tyrannous 
inclinations.  I  wondered  irreverently  if  I 
should  be  killed  that  night,  after  the  fashion 
of  traditional  tavern  robberies,  for  the  sake 
of  what  might  be  found  in  my  pocket,  and 
sauntered  toward  the  house.  It  remained  to 
be  proved  whether  the  daughter  was  the  vic 
tim  or  the  upholder  of  her  father's  traits. 

I  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  that  the 
daughter  was  just  arranging  a  table  for  sup 
per.  As  I  passed  the  wide-open  door  of  a  closet, 
I  was  tempted  to  look  in  by  the  faint  ancient 
odor  of  plum  cakes  and  Madeira  wine  which 
escaped ;  but  I  never  saw  a  barer  closet  than 
that,  or  one  that  looked  hungrier  in  spite  of 
the  lingering  fragrance  of  hospitality.  It 
gave  me  a  strange  feeling  as  if  there  were  a 
still  subtler  link  with  the  past,  and  some  in 
visible  presence  would  have  me  contrast  the 
house's  former  opulence  with  its  present 
meagreness.  When  we  sat  at  table  I  was 
not  surprised  to  find,  on  a  cloth  that  was  half 
covered  with  darns  and  patches,  some  pieces 
of  superb  old  English  silver  and  delicate 
china.  The  fare  was  less  than  frugal,  but 


98      THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

was  nobly  eked  out  with  a  dish  of  field 
strawberries,  as  if  kind  Nature  had  come  to 
the  rescue.  Cream  there  was  none,  nor  su 
gar,  nor  even  tea  or  butter.  I  had  an  ach 
ing  sense  of  the  poverty  of  the  family,  and 
curiously  questioned  in  my  own  mind  how 
far  they  found  it  possible  to  live  without 
money.  There  was  some  thin,  crisp  corn 
bread,  which  had  been  baked  in  the  morning, 
or  whenever  there  had  last  been  a  fire.  It 
was  very  good.  Perhaps  my  entertainers 
even  gathered  their  own  salt  from  the  tide- 
pools  to  flavor  the  native  corn.  Look  where 
I  would,  I  could  see  nothing  for  which  money 
had  been  lately  spent ;  here  was  a  thing  to 
be  wondered  at  in  this  lavish  America,  and  I 
pushed  back  my  chair  at  last,  while  I  was 
still  half  hungry,  from  a  dread  that  there 
would  be  nothing  for  breakfast  unless  I  saved 
it  then. 

The  father  and  daughter  were  very  agree 
able,  I  must  confess;  they  talked  with  me 
about  my  journey  now,  and  my  plans,  as  if 
they  were  my  personal  friends,  and  the 
strange  meal  was  full  of  pleasure,  after  all. 
What  had  brought  a  lady  and  gentleman  to 
such  a  pass  ? 

After  supper  the  daughter  disappeared  for 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.      99 

a  time,  busy  with  her  household  cares ;  a  lit 
tle  later  the  father  went  out  of  the  stable  and 
across  the  fields,  before  I  could  call  to  him  or 
offer  my  company.  He  walked  with  a  light, 
quick  step,  like  an  Indian,  as  if  he  were  used 
to  taking  journeys  on  foot.  I  found  myself 
uncommonly  tired  ;  the  half  illness  which 
had  fettered  me  seemed  to  have  returned, 
after  the  unusual  anxiety  and  weariness  of 
the  afternoon,  and  I  longed  to  go  to  bed  and 
to  sleep.  I  had  been  interested  in  much  that 
my  entertainers  had  said  of  the  early  history 
of  that  part  of  the  country,  and  while  we 
sat  at  the  table  I  had  begun  to  look  forward 
to  a  later  evening  talk,  but  almost  before 
daylight  faded  I  was  forced  to  go  to  bed. 

My  hostess  led  me  through  a  handsome 
empty  hall,  of  the  wide  and  stately  colonial 
type,  to  a  comfortable  upper  room,  furnished 
with  a  gloomy-looking  curtained  bedstead 
and  heavy  mahogany  furniture  of  the  best 
old  fashion.  It  seemed  as  if  the  room  had 
been  long  unused,  and  also  as  if  the  lower 
part  of  the  house  were  in  a  much  worse  state 
of  disrepair  and  threadbareness  than  this. 
But  the  two  large  windows  stood  open  to  the 
fading  sky  and  sweet  country  air,  and  I  bade 
my  hostess  good-night  cheerfully.  She  lin- 


100     THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

gered  to  see  if  I  were  comfortable ;  it  was 
the  first  time  I  had  been  alone  with  her. 
"  You  can  see  that  we  are  not  used  to  enter 
taining  company,''  she  whispered,  reddening 
with  sensitiveness,  and  smiling  apologetically. 
"  Father  has  kept  everybody  away  for  so 
many  years  that  I  rarely  have  any  one  to 
speak  to,  or  anything  to  do  but  to  keep  the 
poor  old  house  clean.  Father  means  to  be 
kind,  but  he  "  —  and  she  turned  away,  much 
embarrassed  by  my  questioning  look  —  "  he 
has  a  monomania;  he  inherits  it  from  my 
grandfather.  He  fears  want,  yet  seems  to 
have  no  power  to  provide  against  it.  We 
are  poor,  God  knows,  yet  we  have  resources ; 
or  had  them  once,"  she  added,  sorrowfully. 
"  It  was  the  horse  that  made  him  willing  to 
let  you  in.  He  loves  horses,  yet  he  has  long 
denied  himself  even  that  useful  pleasure." 

"  But  surely  he  ought  to  be  controlled,"  I 
urged.  "  You  must  have  suffered." 

"  I  know  all  that  you  are  eager  to  say," 
she  replied  ;  "  but  I  promised  my  dear  mother 
to  be  patient  with  him.  It  will  not  be  long 
now ;  he  is  very  feeble.  I  have  a  horror  that 
this  habit  of  parsimony  has  rooted  itself  too 
deeply  in  my  own  life  to  be  shaken  off.  You 
will  hear  mockery  enough  of  us  among  the 
farmers." 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.  101 

"  You  surely  have  friends  ?  " 

"  Only  at  a  distance,"  said  she,  sadly.  "  I 
fear  that  they  are  no  longer  friends.  I  have 
you"  she  added,  turning  to  me  quickly,  in  a 
pathetic  way  that  made  me  wish  to  put  my 
arms  about  her.  "  I  have  been  longing  for 
a  friendly  face.  Yes,  it  is  very  hard,"  and 
she  drearily  went  out  of  the  door,  and  left 
me  alone  with  the  dim  light  of  the  sky  out 
side,  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  room  within, 
I  tried  to  fancy  some  clew  to  the  weird  mis 
ery  of  this  poverty-stricken  household,  as  I 
lay  down ;  but  I  fell  asleep  very  soon,  and 
slept  all  night,  without  even  a  dream., 


III. 


Daylight  brought  a  new  eagerness  and  a 
less  anxious  curiosity  about  my  strange  en 
tertainers.  I  opened  my  eyes  in  broad  sun 
light.  I  was  puzzled  by  the  unfamiliar 
India-cotton  hangings  of  the  great  bedstead ; 
then  I  caught  sight  of  my  dusty  habit  and 
my  riding-cap  and  whip,  near  by.  I  instantly 
resolved  that  even  if  I  found  my  horse  in  the 
restored  condition  there  was  every  reason  to 
expect,  I  would  make  this  house  my  head 
quarters  for  as  long  time  as  its  owners  would 


102     THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

keep  me,  or  I  could  content  myself.  I  would 
try  to  show  some  sisterly  affection  to  the 
fast-aging  woman  who  was  so  enslaved  by 
her  father's  delusions.  I  had  come  out  in 
search  of  adventure ;  it  would  be  a  difficult 
task  to  match  my  present  surroundings. 

I  listened  for  the  sound  of  footsteps  or 
voices  from  below,  but  it  was  still  very  early, 
and  I  looked  about  the  long-untenaiited  room 
with  deliberate  interest  and  scrutiny.  As  I 
changed  my  position  a  little,  I  caught  sight 
of  a  curious  old  painting  on  the  large  oval 
panel  above  the  empty  fireplace.  The  colors 
were  dullr  the  drawing  was  quaintly  conven 
tional,  and  I  recognized  the  subject,  though 
nofr.  immediately.  The  artist  had  pleased 
himself  by 'making  a  study  of  the  old  house 
itself,  and  later,  as  I  dressed,  I  examined  it 
in  detail. 

From  the  costume  of  the  figures  I  saw 
that  it  must  have  been  painted  more  than  a 
hundred  years  before.  In  astonishing  con 
trast  to  the  present  condition,  it  appeared  like 
a  satirical  show  of  the  house's  possibilities. 
Servants  held  capering  steeds  for  gay  gentle 
men  to  mount,  and  ladies  walked  together  in 
fine  attire  down  the  garden  alleys  of  the  pic 
ture.  Once  a  hospitable  family  had  kept 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.  103 

open  house  behind  the  row  of  elms,  and  once 
the  follies  of  the  world  and  the  fashions  of 
brilliant,  luxurious  life  had  belonged  to  this 
decayed  and  withering  household.  I  won 
dered  if  the  miserly  old  man,  to  whose 
strangely  sweet  and  compelling  voice  I  had 
listened  the  evening  before,  could  bear  to 
look  at  this  picture,  and  acknowledge  his  un- 
likeness  to  his  prosperous  ancestors. 

It  was  well  for  me  that  the  keeping  of  hens 
is  comparatively  inexpensive,  for  I  break 
fasted  comfortably,  and  was  never  so  heartily 
rejoiced  at  the  vicinity  of  a  chicken -coop. 
My  proposal  to  stay  with  my  new  friends  for 
a  few  days  met  with  no  opposition  from  either 
host  or  hostess ;  and  again,  as  I  looked  in 
their  pinched  and  hopeless  faces,  I  planned 
some  secret  excuses  for  making  a  feast  of  my 
own,  or  a  happy  holiday.  The  fields  and 
hills  of  the  old  picture  were  still  unchanged, 
but  what  ebb  and  flow  of  purpose,  of  com 
fort,  of  social  condition,  had  enriched  and 
impoverished  the  household ! 

"  Where  did  she  sleep  ?  "  asked  the  master 
of  the  house,  suddenly,  with  a  strange,  sus 
picious  glance  at  his  daughter. 

"  In   the    landscape    chamber,"    the  pale 


104  TEE  LANDSCAPE   CHAMBER. 

woman  said,  without  lifting  her  eyes  to  his, 
though  she  grew  whiter  and  thinner  as  she 
spoke. 

I  looked  at  him  instinctively  to  see  his 
eyes  blaze  with  anger,  and  expected  a  torrent 
of  abuse,  because  he  was  manifestly  so  much 
displeased.  Nothing  was  said,  but  with  a 
feeling  of  uneasiness  we  left  the  table,  and  I 
went  out  to  the  kitchen  with  my  new  friend. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  have 
put  you  into  the  landscape  chamber,"  she 
told  me  instantly.  "  It  is  a  fancy  of  my 
father's.  I  had  aired  that  room  thoroughly 
in  the  morning,  but  the  front  guest-chambers 
have  been  closed  for  some  time." 

"  Who  painted  the  strange  old  picture  ?  " 
I  asked.  "  Some  member  of  the  family?  " 
But  I  was  answered  that  it  was  the  work  of 
a  Frenchman,  who  was  captured  in  war-time, 
and  paroled  under  the  charge  of  her  great 
grandfather. 

"  He  must  have  had  a  gay  visit,"  I  sug 
gested,  "  if  he  has  left  a  faithful  picture  of 
the  house  as  he  saw  it." 

"  The  house  used  to  be  like  that  always," 
was  the  faint  response,  and  the  speaker  hesi 
tated,  as  if  she  considered  whether  we  did 
right  in  discussing  her  family  history ;  then 


THE  LANDSCAPE   CHAMBER.  105 

she  turned  quickly  away.  "  I  believe  we  are 
under  some  miserable  doom.  Father  will  be 
sure  to  tell  you  so,  at  any  rate,"  she  added, 
with  an  effort  at  gayety.  "  He  believes  that 
he  fights  against  it,  but  I  always  say  that  he 
was  cowardly,  and  accepted  it,"  and  she 
sighed  wearily. 

I  looked  at  her  with  fresh  surprise  and 
conjecture.  I  forgot  for  the  time  this  great, 
busy,  prosaic  world  of  which  we  were  both  a 
part,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had  lost  a  score  of 
years  for  each  day's  journey,  and  had  gone 
backward  into  the  past.  New  England  holds 
many  strange  households  within  its  borders, 
but  there  could  not  be  another  which  ap 
proached  this.  The  very  air  of  the  house 
oppressed  me,  and  I  strayed  out  into  the 
beautiful  wide  fields,  and  found  my  spirits 
rising  again  at  once.  I  turned  at  last  to  look 
back  at  the  group  of  gray  buildings  in  the 
great  level  landscape.  They  were  such  a 
small  excrescence  upon  the  fruitful  earth, 
those  roofs  which  covered  awful  stagnation 
and  hindrance  of  the  processes  of  spiritual 
life  and  growth.  What  power  could  burst 
the  bonds,  and  liberate  the  man  and  woman 
I  had  left,  from  a  mysterious  tyranny  ? 

I  was  bareheaded  and  the  morning  grew 


106         THE  LANDSCAPE   CHAMBER. 

very  hot.  I  went  toward  a  group  of  oaks, 
to  shelter  myself  in  the  shade,  and  found  the 
ancient  burying-place  of  the  family.  There 
were  numerous  graves,  but  none  were  marked 
except  the  oldest.  There  was  a  group  of 
rude  but  stately  stones,  with  fine  inscriptions, 
yet  curiously  enough  the  latest  of  them  bore 
a  date  soon  after  the  beginning  of  the  cen 
tury;  all  the  more  recent  graves  were  low 
and  unmarked  in  any  way.  The  family  for 
tunes  had  waned  long  ago,  perhaps  ;  I  might 
be  wronging  the  present  master  of  the  house, 
though  I  remembered  what  had  been  said  to 
me  of  some  mysterious  doom.  I  could  not 
help  thinking  of  my  new  acquaintances  most 
intently,  and  was  startled  at  the  sound  of 
footsteps.  I  saw  the  old  man,  muttering 
and  bending  his  head  until  he  could  see  noth 
ing  but  the  ground  at  his  feet.  He  only 
picked  up  some  dead  branches  that  had  fallen 
from  the  oaks,  and  went  away  toward  the 
house  again ;  always  looking  at  the  ground, 
as  if  he  expected  to  find  something.  It  came 
to  my  mind  with  greater  distinctness  that  he 
was  a  miser,  poor  only  by  his  own  choice ; 
and  I  indignantly  resolved  to  urge  the  daugh 
ter  to  break  her  allegiance  to  him  for  a  time, 
to  claim  her  own  and  set  herself  free.  But 


THE  LANDSCAPE   CHAMBER.  107 

the  miser  had  no  cheerful  sense  of  his  hoards, 
no  certainty  of  a  munificence  which  was 
more  to  him  than  any  use  of  it ;  there  was  a 
look  upon  his  face  as  of  a  preying  conscience 
within,  a  gnawing  reptile  of  shame  and  guilt 
and  evil  memory.  Had  he  sacrificed  all 
sweet  family  life  and  natural  ties  to  his  crav 
ing  for  wealth?  I  watched  the  bent  and 
hungry  figure  out  of  sight. 

When  I  reached  the  house  again,  I  went 
through  the  open  door  of  the  wide  hall,  and 
gained  my  landscape  chamber  without  being 
seen  by  any  one.  I  was  tired  and  dizzy  with 
the  unusual  heat,  and,  quickly  drawing  the 
close  shutters,  I  threw  myself  on  the  bed  to 
rest.  All  the  light  in  the  room  came  from 
the  shaded  hall ;  there  was  absolute  silence, 
except  some  far-off  country  sounds  of  birds 
high  in  the  air  or  lowing  cattle.  The  house 
itself  was  still  as  a  tomb. 

I  went  to  sleep,  but  it  was  not  sound 
sleep.  I  grew  heavy  and  tired  with  my 
own  weight.  I  heard  soft  footsteps  com 
ing  up  the  stairs  ;  some  one  stopped  as  if  to 
listen  outside  the  wide-open  door;  then  the 
gray,  shadowy  figure  of  the  old  man  stood 
just  within,  and  his  eyes  peered  about  the 
room.  I  was  behind  the  curtains ;  one  had 


108     THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

been  unfastened,  and  hid  me  from  his  sight 
at  first,  but  as  he  took  one  step  forward  he 
saw  me,  lying  asleep.  He  bent  over  me, 
until  I  felt  my  hair  stir  with  his  breath, 
but  I  did  not  move.  His  presence  was  not 
frightful,  strange  to  say ;  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
only  dreaming.  I  opened  my  eyes  a  little 
as  he  went  away,  apparently  satisfied,  to  the 
closet  door,  and  unlocked  it,  starting  and 
looking  at  me  anxiously  as  the  key  turned 
in  the  lock.  Then  he  disappeared.  I  had 
a  childish  desire  to  shut  him  in  and  keep 
him  prisoner,  for  reasons  that  were  not  clear 
to  myself.  Whether  he  only  wished  to  sat 
isfy  himself  that  a  concealed  treasure  was 
untouched  I  do  not  know,  but  presently  he 
came  out,  and  carefully  locked  the  door 
again,  and  went  away  on  tiptoe.  I  fan 
cied  that  he  lingered  before  the  picture 
above  the  chimney-place,  and  wondered  if 
his  conscience  pricked  him  as  he  acknowl 
edged  the  contrast  between  past  and  pres 
ent.  Then  he  groaned  softly,  and  went 
out.  My  heart  began  to  beat  very  fast.  I 
sprang  up  and  tried  to  lock  the  door  into  the 
hall.  My  enthusiasm  about  spending  a  few 
days  in  this  dismal  place  suddenly  faded  out, 
for  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  that  the 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.  109 

weird  old  man  was  free  to  prowl  about  at 
his  own  sad  will.  But  as  I  stood  undecided 
in  my  doorway,  a  song  sparrow  perched  on 
the  sill  of  the  wide  hall  window,  and  sang 
his  heart  away  in  a  most  cheerful  strain. 
There  was  something  so  touching  and  ap 
pealing  in  the  contrast  that  I  felt  a  wistful 
clutch  at  my  throat  while  I  smiled,  as  one 
does  when  tears  are  coming  like  April 
showers  to  one's  eyes.  Without  thinking 
what  I  did,  I  went  back  into  the  room, 
threw  open  the  shutters  again,  and  stood 
before  the  dingy  landscape.  How  the  horses 
pranced  up  to  the  door,  and  how  fine  the 
ladies  were  in  their  hoop-petticoats  and  high 
feathers!  I  imagined  that  the  picture  had 
been  a  constant  rebuke  to  the  dwellers  in 
the  house  through  their  wasting  lives  and 
failing  fortunes.  In  every  human  heart, 
said  I,  there  is  such  a  picture  of  the  ideal 
life,  —  the  high  possibilities  and  successes, 
the  semblance  of  duties  done  and  of  spirit 
ual  achievements.  It  forever  measures  our 
incompleteness  by  its  exact  likeness  to  that 
completeness  which  we  would  not  fight  hard 
enough  to  win.  But  as  I  looked  up  at  the 
panel,  the  old  landscape  became  dim,  and 
I  knew  that  it  was  only  because  a  cloud  was 


110  THE  LANDSCAPE   CHAMBER. 

hiding  the  sun  ;  yet  I  was  glad  to  leave  the 
shadows  of  the  room,  and  to  hurry  down  the 
wide  stairway. 

I  saw  nothing  of  the  daughter,  though 
I  searched  for  her,  and  even  called  her, 
through  the  house.  When  I  reached  the 
side  door  I  found  her  father  crossing  the 
yard,  and  wondered  if  he  would  show  any 
consciousness  of  our  having  so  lately  met. 
He  stood  still  and  waited  for  me,  and  my 
first  impulse  made  me  ask,  "  What  did  you 
want  just  now  ?  I  was  not  asleep  when  you 
were  in  my  room  ;  you  frightened  me." 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  answered  with 
unexpected  patience.  "You  must  take  us 
as  you  find  us.  It  is  a  sad  old  house,  but 
you  need  not  be  afraid ;  we  are  much  more 
afraid  of  you !  "  and  we  both  smiled  ami 
ably. 

"  But  your  daughter,"  said  I ;  "  I  have 
been  asking  her  to  come  away  for  a  time, 
to  visit  me  or  take  a  journey.  It  would 
be  much  better  for  you  both  ;  and  she  needs 
a  change  and  a  little  pleasuring.  God  does 
not  mean  that  we  shall  make  our  lives  ut 
terly  dismal."  I  was  afraid,  and  did  not 
dare  to  meet  the  old  man's  eyes  after  I 
had  spoken  so  plainly. 


THE  LANDSCAPE    CHAMBER.  Ill 

He  laughed  coldly,  and  glanced  at  his 
mended  coat-sleeve. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  happiness  ? 
You  are  too  young,"  said  he.  "  At  your 
age  I  thought  I  knew  the  world.  What 
difference  would  it  make  if  the  old  place 
here  were  like  the  gay  ghost  of  it  in  our 
landscape  chamber  ?  The  farmers  would  be 
jealous  of  our  luxury;  reverence  and  re 
spect  would  be  turned  into  idle  curiosity. 
This  quiet  countryside  would  be  disgraced 
by  such  a  flaunting  folly.  No,  we  are  very 
comfortable,  my  child  and  I ;  you  must  not 
try  to  disturb  us,"  and  he  looked  at  me 
with  a  kind  of  piteous  suspicion. 

There  was  a  large  block  of  stone  under 
one  of  the  old  elms,  which  had  been  placed 
there  long  ago  for  a  mounting-block,  and 
here  we  seated  ourselves.  As  I  looked  at 
my  companion,  he  seemed  like  a  man  unused 
to  the  broad  light  of  day.  I  fancied  that 
a  prisoner,  who  had  just  ended  many  years 
of  dungeon  life,  would  wear  exactly  such  a 
face.  And  yet  it  was  such  a  lovely  summer 
day  of  a  joyful  world,  if  he  would  only  take 
or  make  it  so.  Alas,  he  matched  the  winter 
weather  better.  I  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  the  old  house  in  winter ! 


112  THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

"  Who  is  to  blame  ? "  said  the  old  man 
suddenly,  in  a  strange  eager  tone  which 
startled  me,  and  made  me  shrink  away 
from  him.  "  We  are  in  bondage.  I  am  a 
generous-hearted  man,  yet  I  can  never  fol 
low  my  own  impulses.  I  longed  to  give 
what  I  had  with  a  lavish  hand,  when  I 
was  younger,  but  some  power  restrained 
me.  I  have  grown  old  while  I  tried  to 
fight  it  down.  We  are  all  in  prison  while 
we  are  left  in  this  world,  —  that  is  the 
truth ;  in  prison  for  another  man's  sin." 
For  the  first  time  I  understood  that  he 
was  not  altogether  sane.  "If  there  were 
an  ancestor  of  mine,  as  I  have  been  taught, 
who  sold  his  soul  for  wealth,  the  awful  price 
was  this,  and  he  lost  the  power  of  using  it. 
He  was  greedy  for  gain,  and  now  we  can 
not  part  with  what  we  have,  even  for  com 
mon  comfort.  His  children  and  his  chil 
dren's  children  have  suffered  for  his  fault. 
He  has  lived  in  the  hell  of  watching  us  from 
generation  to  generation  ;  seeing  our  happi 
ness  spoiled,  our  power  of  usefulness  wither 
away.  Wherever  he  is,  he  knows  that  we 
are  all  misers  because  he  was  miserly,  and 
stamped  us  with  the  mark  of  his  own  base 
spirit.  He  has  watched  his  descendants 


THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER.     113 

shrivel  up  and  disappear  one  by  one,  poor 
and  ungenerous  in  God's  world.  We  fight 
against  the  doom  of  it,  but  it  wins  at  last. 
Thank  God,  there  are  only  two  of  us  left." 

I  had  sprung  to  my  feet,  frightened  by 
the  old  man's  vehemence.  I  could  not  help 
saying  that  God  meant  us  to  be  free  and 
unconquered  by  any  evil  power ;  the  gray, 
strange  face  looked  blindly  at  me,  and  I 
could  not  speak  again.  This  was  the  secret 
of  the  doom,  then.  I  left  the  old  man  cry 
ing,  while  I  hurried  away  to  find  the  mis 
tress  of  the  desolate  house,  and  appeal  to  her 
to  let  me  send  a  companion  for  her  father, 
who  could  properly  care  for  him  here,  or  per 
suade  him  to  go  away  to  some  place  where 
he  would  forget  his  misery  among  new  in 
terests  and  scenes.  She  herself  must  not  be 
worn  out  by  his  malady  of  unreason. 

But  I  only  dashed  my  sympathy  against 
the  rock  of  her  hopelessness.  "  I  think  we 
shall  all  disappear  some  night  in  a  winter 
storm,  and  the  world  will  be  rid  of  us,  — 
father  and  the  house  and  I,  all  three,"  she 
said,  with  bitter  dreariness,  and  turned  to 
her  work  again. 

Early  that  evening,  I  said  good-by  to 
toy  new  friends,  for  the  horse  was  sound, 


114  THE  LANDSCAPE  CHAMBER. 

and  not  to  be  satisfied  by  such  meagre 
stabling.  Our  host  seemed  sorry  to  let 
the  creature  go,  and  stood  stroking  him 
affectionately  after  I  had  mounted.  "  How 
the  famous  old  breed  holds  its  own !  "  he 
said  wistfully.  "  I  should  like  to  have  seen 
the  ancestor  who  has  stamped  his  likeness 
so  unmistakably  on  all  his  descendants." 

"  But  among  human  beings,"  I  could 
not  resist  saying,  "  there  is  freedom,  thank 
God!  We  can  climb  to  our  best  possibil 
ities,  and  outgrow  our  worst  inheritance." 

"  No,  no  ! "  cried  the  old  man  bitterly 
"  You  are  young  and  fortunate.  Forget  us, 
if  you  can  ;  we  are  of  those  who  have  no 
hope  in  a  world  of  fate." 

I  looked  back  again  and  again,  as  I  rode 
away.  It  was  a  house  of  shadows  and 
strange  moods,  and  I  was  glad  when  I  had 
fairly  left  it  behind  me;  yet  I  looked  for 
ward  to  seeing  it  again.  I  well  remember  the 
old  man's  clutch  at  the  money  I  offered 
him,  and  the  kiss  and  the  bunch  of  roses  that 
the  daughter  gave  to  me.  But  late  that 
evening  I  was  not  sorry  to  shut  myself  into 
my  prosaic  room  at  a  village  hotel,  rather 
than  try  to  sleep  again  behind  the  faded 
figured  curtains  of  the  landscape  chamber. 


LAW  LANE. 


I. 


THE  thump  of  a  flat-iron  signified  to  an 
educated  passer-by  that  this  was  Tuesday 
morning ;  yesterday  having  been  fair  and 
the  weekly  washing-day  unhindered  by  the 
weather.  It  was  undoubtedly  what  Mrs. 
Powder  pleased  herself  by  calling  a  good 
orthodox  week ;  not  one  of  the  disjointed 
and  imperfect  sections  of  time  which  a  rainy 
Monday  forced  upon  methodical  housekeep 
ers.  Mrs.  Powder  was  not  a  woman  who 
could  live  altogether  in  the  present,  and 
whatever  she  did  was  done  with  a  view  to 
having  it  cleared  out  of  the  way  of  the  next 
enterprise  on  her  list.  "  I  can't  bear  to  see 
folks  do  their  work  as  if  every  piece  on  't 
was  a  tread-mill,"  she  used  to  say,  briskly. 
"  Life  means  progriss  to  me,  and  I  can't 
dwell  by  the  way  no  more  'n  sparks  can  fly 
downwards.  'T  ain't  the  way  I  'm  built,  nor 
none  of  the  Fisher  tribe." 


116  LAW  LANE. 

The  hard  white  bundles  in  the  shallow 
splint-basket  were  disappearing,  one  by  one, 
and  taking  their  places  on  the  decrepit 
clothes-horse,  well  ironed  and  precisely 
folded.  The  July  sunshine  came  in  at  one 
side  of  Mrs.  Powder's  kitchen,  and  the  cool 
northwest  breeze  blew  the  heat  out  again 
from  the  other  side.  Mrs.  Powder  grew  un 
easy  and  impatient  as  she  neared  the  end  of 
her  task,  and  the  flat-iron  moved  more  and 
more  vigorously.  She  kept  glancing  out 
through  the  doorway  and  along  the  country 
road  as  if  she  were  watching  for  somebody. 

"I  shall  just  have  to  git  ready  an'  go  an' 
rout  her  out  myself,  an'  take  my  chances," 
she  said  at  last  with  a  resentful  look  at  the 
clock,  as  if  it  were  partly  to  blame  for  the 
delay  and  had  ears  with  which  to  listen  to 
proper  rebuke.  The  round  moon-face  had 
long  ago  ceased  its  waxing  and  waning 
across  the  upper  part  of  the  old  dial,  as  if 
it  had  forgotten  its  responsibility  about  the 
movements  of  a  heavenly  body  in  its  pleased 
concern  about  housekeeping. 

"  See  here  !  "  said  Mrs.  Powder,  taking 
a  last  hot  iron  from  the  fire.  "  You  ain't 
a-keepin'  time  like  you  used  to ;  you  're  get- 
tin'  lazy,  I  must  say.  Look  at  this  'ere  sun- 


LAW  LANE.  117 

mark  on  the  floor,  that  calls  it  full  'leven 
o'clock,  and  you  want  six  minutes  to  ten. 
I  've  got  to  send  word  to  the  clock-man  and 
have  your  in'ards  all  took  apart;  you  got 
me  to  meetin'  more  'n  half  an  hour  too  late, 
Sabbath  last." 

To  which  the  moon-face  did  not  change 
its  beaming  expression  ;  very  likely,  being  a 
moon,  it  was  not  willing  to  mind  the  ways 
of  the  sun. 

"  Lord,  what  an  old  thing  you  be !  "  said 
Mrs.  Powder,  turning  away  with  a  chuckle. 
"  I  don't  wonder  your  sense  kind  of  fails 
you !  "  And  the  clock  clucked  at  her  by 
way  of  answer,  though  presently  it  was  go 
ing  to  strike  ten  at  any  rate. 

The  hot  iron  was  now  put  down  hurriedly, 
and  the  half -ironed  night-cap  was  left  in  a 
queer  position  on  the  ironing-board.  A 
small  figure  had  appeared  in  the  road  and 
was  coming  toward  the  house  with  a  fleet, 
barefooted  run  which  required  speedy  ac 
tion.  "  Here  you,  Joel  Smith !  "  shouted 
the  old  woman.  "  Jo — el !  "  But  the  saucy 
lad  only  doubled  his  pace  and  pretended 
not  to  see  or  hear  her.  Mrs.  Powder  could 
play  at  that  game,  too,  and  did  not  call 
again,  but  quietly  went  back  to  her  ironing 


118  LAW  LANE. 

and  tried  as  hard  as  she  could  to  be  pro 
voked.  Presently  the  boy  came  panting  up 
the  slope  of  green  turf  which  led  from  the 
road  to  the  kitchen  doorstep. 

"  I  did  n't  know  but  you  spoke  as  I  ran 
by,"  he  remarked,  in  an  amiable  tone.  Mrs. 
Powder  took  no  heed  of  him  whatever. 

"  I  ain't  in  no  hurry ;  I  kind  o'  got  run 
ning,"  he  explained,  a  moment  later;  and 
then,  as  his  hostess  stepped  toward  the 
stove,  he  caught  up  the  frilled  night-cap  and 
tied  it  on  in  a  twinkling.  When  Mrs.  Pow 
der  turned  again,  the  sight  of  him  was  too 
much  for  her  gravity. 

"  Them  frills  is  real  becoming  to  ye,"  she 
announced,  shaking  with  laughter.  "  I  de 
clare  for  't  if  you  don't  favor  your  gran'ma 
Dodge's  looks.  I  should  like  to  have  yer 
folks  see  ye.  There,  take  it  off  now  ;  I  'm 
most  through  my  ironin'  and  I  want  to  clear 
it  out  o'  the  way." 

Joel  was  perfectly  docile  and  laid  the 
night-cap  within  reach.  He  had  a  tempta 
tion  to  twitch  it  back  by  the  end  of  one 
string,  but  he  refrained.  "  Want  me  to  go 
drive  your  old  brown  hen-turkey  out  o'  the 
wet  grass,  Mis'  Powder  ?  She  's  tolling  her 
chicks  off  down  to'a'ds  the  swamp,"  he  of 
fered. 


LAW  LANE.  119 

"  She  's  raised  up  families  enough  to  know 
how  by  this  time,"  said  Mrs.  Powder,  u  an' 
the  swamp 's  dry  as  a  bone." 

"  I  '11  split  ye  up  a  mess  o'  kindlin'-wood 
whilst  I  'm  here,  jest  as  soon  's  not,"  said 
Joel,  in  a  still  more  pleasant  tone,  after  a 
long  and  anxious  pause. 

"There,  I'll  get  ye  your  doughnuts, 
pretty  quick.  They  ain't  so  fresh  as  they 
was  Saturday.  T  s'pose  that 's  what  you  're 
driving  at."  The  good  soul  shook  with 
laughter.  Joel  answered  as  well  for  her 
amusement  as  the  most  famous  of  comic  ac 
tors  ;  there  was  something  in  his  appealing 
eyes,  his  thin  cheeks  and  monstrous  frec 
kles,  and  his  long  locks  of  sandy  hair,  which 
was  very  funny  to  Mrs.  Powder.  She  was 
always  interested,  too,  in  fruitless  attempts 
to  satisfy  his  appetite.  He  listened  now, 
for  the  twentieth  time,  to  her  opinion  that 
the  bottomless  pit  alone  could  be  compared 
to  the  recesses  of  his  being.  "  I  should  like 
to  be  able  to  say  that  I  had  filled  ye  up  jest 
once ! "  she  ended  her  remarks,  as  she 
brought  a  tin  pan  full  of  doughnuts  from 
her  pantry. 

"  Heard  the  news  ?  "  asked  small  Joel,  as 
he  viewed  the  provisions  with  glistening 


120  LAW  LANE. 

eyes.  He  bore  likeness  to  a  little  hungry 
woodchuck,  or  muskrat,  as  he  went  to  work 
before  the  tin  pan. 

"  What  news  ?  "  Mrs.  Powder  asked,  sus 
piciously.  "  I  ain't  seen  nobody  this  day." 

"Barnet's  folks  has  got  their  case  in 
court." 

"  They  ain't !  "  and  while  a  solemn  silence 
fell  upon  the  kitchen,  the  belated  old  clock 
whirred  and  rumbled  and  struck  ten  with 
persistent  effort.  Mrs.  Powder  looked  round 
at  it  impatiently ;  the  moon-face  confronted 
her  with  the  same  placid  smile. 

u  Twelve  o'clock 's  the  time  you  git  your 
dinner,  ain't  it,  Mis'  Powder  ?  "  the  boy  in 
quired,  as  if  he  had  repeated  his  news  like 
a  parrot  and  had  no  further  interest  in  its 
meaning. 

u  1  don't  plot  for  to  get  me  no  reg'lar 
dinner  this  day,"  was  the  unexpected  reply. 
"  You  can  eat  a  couple  or  three  o'  them 
nuts  and  step  along,  for  all  I  care.  An'  I 
want  you  to  go  up  Lyddy  Bangs's  lane  and 
carry  her  word  that  I  'm  goin'  out  to  pick 
me  some  blueberries.  They  '11  be  ripened 
up  elegant,  and  I  've  got  a  Ion  gin'  for  'em. 
Tell  her  I  say  't  is  our  day  —  she  '11  know  ; 
we  've  be'n  after  'arly  blueberries  together 


LAW  LANE.  121 

this  forty  years,  and  Lyddy  knows  where  to 
meet  with  me ;  there  by  them  split  rocks." 

The  ironing  was  finished  a  few  minutes 
afterward,  and  the  board  was  taken  to  its 
place  in  the  shed.  When  Mrs.  Powder  re 
turned,  Joel  had  stealthily  departed ;  the  tin 
pan  was  turned  upside  down  on  the  seat  of 
the  kitchen  chair.  "  Good  land!  "  said  the 
astonished  woman,  "  I  believe  he  '11  bu'st 
himself  to  everlastin'  bliss  one  o'  these  days. 
Them  doughnuts  would  have  lasted  me  till 
Thursday,  certain." 

"Gimme  suthin'  to  eat,  Mis'  Powder?" 
whined  Joel  at  the  window,  with  his  plain 
tive  countenance  lifted  just  above  the  sill. 
But  he  set  forth  immediately  down  the  road, 
with  bulging  pockets  and  the  speed  of  a 
light-horseman. 

II. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  little  gray  farm 
house  was  shut  and  locked,  and  its  mistress 
was  crossing  the  next  pasture  with  a  surpris 
ingly  quick  step  for  a  person  of  her  age  and 
weight.  An  old  cat  was  trotting  after  her, 
with  tail  high  in  the  air,  but  it  was  plain  to 
see  that  she  still  looked  for  danger,  having 


122  LA  W  LANE. 

just  come  down  from  the  woodpile,  where 
she  had  retreated  on  Joel's  first  approach. 
She  kept  as  close  to  Mrs.  Powder  as  was 
consistent  with  short  excursions  after  crick 
ets  or  young,  unwary  sparrows,  and  opened 
her  wide  green  eyes  fearfully  on  the  lookout 
for  that  evil  monster,  the  boy. 

There  were  two  pastures  to  cross,  and 
Mrs.  Powder  was  very  much  heated  by  the 
noonday  sun  and  entirely  out  of  breath 
when  she  approached  the  familiar  rendez 
vous  and  caught  sight  of  her  friend's  cape- 
bonnet. 

"  Ain't  there  no  justice  left  ?  "  was  her 
indignant  salutation.  "  I  s'pose  you  've 
heard  that  Crosby's  folks  have  lost  their 
case?  Poor  Mis'  Crosby!  'twill  kill  her, 
I  'm  sure.  I  've  be'n  calculatin'  to  go  ber- 
ryin'  all  the  forenoon,  but  I  could  n't  git 
word  to  you  till  Joel  came  tootin'  by.  I 
thought  likely  you  'd  expect  notice  when 
you  see  what  a  good  day  't  was." 

"  I  did,"  replied  Lyddy  Bangs,  in  a  tone 
much  more  serious  than  her  companion's. 
She  was  a  thin,  despairing  little  body,  with 
an  anxious  face  and  a  general  look  of  dis 
appointment  and  poverty,  though  really  the 
more  prosperous  person  of  the  two.  "  Joel 


LAW  LANE.  123 

told  me  you  said  't  was  our  day,"  she  added. 
"  I  'm  wore  out  tryin'  to  satisfy  that  boy ; 
he's  always  beggin'  for  somethin'  to  eat 
every  time  he  comes  nigh  the  house.  I 
should  think  they'd  see  to  him  to  home; 
not  let  him  batten  on  the  neighbors  so." 

"You  ain't  been  feedin'  of  him,  too?" 
laughed  Mrs.  Powder.  "  Well,  I  declare,  I 
don't  see  whar  he  puts  it !  "  and  she  fanned 
herself  with  her  apron.  "  I  always  forget 
what  a  sightly  spot  this  is." 

"  Here  's  your  pussy  -  cat,  ain't  she  ?  " 
asked  Lyddy  Bangs,  needlessly,  as  they  sat 
looking  off  over  the  valley.  Behind  them 
the  hills  rose  one  above  another,  with  their 
bare  upland  clearings  and  great  stretches  of 
pine  and  beech  forest.  Beyond  the  wide 
valley  was  another  range  of  hills,  green  and 
pleasant  in  the  clear  mid-day  light.  Some 
higher  mountains  loomed,  sterile  and  stony, 
to  northward.  They  were  on  the  women's 
right  as  they  sat  looking  westward. 

"  It  does  seem  as  if  folks  might  keep  the 
peace  when  the  Lord's  give  'em  so  pooty  a 
a  spot  to  live  in,"  said  Lyddy  Bangs,  re 
gretfully.  "  There  ain't  no  better  farms 
than  Barnet's  and  Crosby's  folks  have  got 
neither,  but  'stead  o'  neighboring  they  must 


124  LAW  LANE. 

pick  their  mean  fusses  and  fight  from  gen 
eration  to  generation.  My  graii'ma'am  used 
to  say  't  was  just  so  with  'em  when  she  was 
a  girl  —  and  she  was  one  of  the  first  settlers 
up  this  way.  She  al'ays  would  have  it  that 
Barnet's  folks  was  the  most  to  blame,  but 
there  's  plenty  sides  with  'em,  as  you  know." 

"  There,  't  is  all  mixed  up,  so  't  is  —  a 
real  tangle,"  answered  Mrs.  Powder.  "  I  've 
been  o'  both  minds  —  I  must  say  I  used  to 
hold  for  the  Crosbys  in  the  old  folks'  time, 
but  I  've  come  round  to  see  they  ain't  per 
fect.  There !  I  'm  b'ilin'  over  with  some- 
thin'  I  've  got  to  tell  somebody.  I  've  kep' 
it  close  long  's  I  can." 

"  Let 's  get  right  to  pickin',  then,"  said 
Lyddy  Bangs,  "  or  we  sha'n't  budge  from 
here  the  whole  livin'  afternoon,"  and  the 
small  thin  figure  and  the  tall  stout  one 
moved  off  together  toward  their  well-known 
harvest-fields.  They  were  presently  settled 
down  within  good  hearing  distance,  and  yet 
the  discussion  was  not  begun.  The  cat 
curled  herself  for  a  nap  on  the  smooth  top 
of  a  rock. 

"  There,  I  have  to  eat  a  while  first,  like  a 
young-one,"  said  Mrs.  Powder.  "  I  always 
tell  'em  that  blueberries  is  only  fit  to  eat 


LAW  LANE.  125 

right  off  of  the  twigs.  You  want  'em  full  o' 
sun ;  let  'em  git  cold  and  they  're  only  fit  to 
cook  —  not  but  what  I  eat  'em  any  ways 
I  can  git  'em.  Ain't  they  nice  an'  spicy? 
Law,  my  poor  knees  is  so  stiff !  I  begin  to 
be  afraid,  nowadays,  every  year  o'  berryin' 
may  be  my  last.  I  don'  know  why  't  should 
be  that  my  knees  serves  me  so.  I  ain't 
rheumaticky,  nor  none  o'  my  folks  was  ;  we 
go  off  with  other  complaints." 

"  The  mukis  membrane  o'  the  knees  gits 
dried  up,"  explained  Lyddy  Bangs,  "  an' 
the  j'ints  is  all  powder-posted.  So  I  've  be'n 
told,  anyways." 

"  Then  they  was  ignorant,"  retorted  her 
companion,  sharply.  "  I  know  by  the  feelin's 
I  have  "  —  and  the  two  friends  picked  in 
dustriously  and  discussed  the  vexed  points 
of  medicine  no  more. 

"  I  can't  force  them  Barnets  and  Cros 
bys  out  o'  my  mind,"  suggested  Miss  Bangs 
after  a  while,  being  eager  to  receive  the 
proffered  confidence  which  might  be  for 
gotten.  "  Think  of  'em,  without  no  other 
door-neighbors,  fightin'  for  three  ginerations 
over  the  bounds  of  a  lane  wall.  What  if 
't  was  two  foot  one  way  or  two  foot  t'other, 
let  'em  agree." 


126  LAW  LANE. 

"  But  that  7s  just  what  they  could  n't," 
said  Mrs.  Powder.  "  You  know  yourself 
you  might  be  willin'  to  give  away  a  piece  o' 
land,  but  when  somebody  said  't  wa'n't  yours, 
't  was  theirs,  't  would  take  more  Christian 
grace  'n  I  've  got  to  let  'em  see  I  thought  they 
was  right.  All  the  old  Crosbys  ever  wanted, 
first,  was  for  the  Barnets  to  say  two  foot  of 
the  lane  was  theirs  by  rights,  and  then  they 
was  williu'  to  turn  it  into  the  lane  and  to 
give  that  two  foot  more  o'  the  wedth  than 
Barnets  did  —  they  wa'n't  haggling  for  no 
pay  ;  't  was  for  rights.  But  Barnet's  folks 
said  "  - 

"Now,  don't  you  go  an'  git  all  flustered 
up  a-tellin'  that  over,  Harri't  Powder,"  said 
the  lesser  woman.  "There  ain't  be'n  no 
words  spoke  so  often  as  them  along  this 
sidelin'  hill,  not  even  the  Ten  Command 
ments.  The  only  sense  there  's  be'n  about 
it  is,  they  've  let  each  other  alone  altogether, 
and  ain't  spoke  at  all  for  six  months  to  a 
time.  I  can't  help  hoping  that  the  war  11 
die  out  with  the  old  breed  and  they  '11  come 
to  some  sort  of  peace.  Mis'  Barnet  was  a 
Sands,  and  they  're  toppin'  sort  o'  folks  and 
she 's  got  fight  in  her.  I  think  she  's  more 
to  blame  than  Barnet,  a  good  sight ;  but 


LAW  LANE.  127 

Mis'  Crosby 's  a  downright  peace-making  lit 
tle  creatur',  and  would  have  ended  it  long 
ago  if  she  'd  be'ii  able." 

"  Barnet's  stubborn,  too,  let  me  tell  you !  " 
and  Mrs.  Powder's  voice  was  full  of  anger. 
"  'T  will  never  die  out  in  his  day,  and  he  '11 
spend  every  cent  lawing,  as  the  old  folks 
did  afore  him.  The  lawyers  must  laugh  at 
him  well,  'mongst  themselves.  One  an'  an 
other  o'  the  best  on  'em  has  counseled  them 
to  leave  it  out  to  referees,  and  tried  to  show 
'em  they  was  fools.  My  man  talked  with 
judge  himself  about  it,  once,  after  he  'd  been 
settin'  on  a  jury  and  they  was  comin'  away 
from  court.  They  could  n't  agree ;  they 
never  could  !  All  the  spare  money  o'  both 
farms  has  gone  to  pay  the  lawyers  and  carry 
on  one  fight  after  another.  Now  folks  don't 
know  it,  but  Crosby's  farm  is  all  mort 
gaged  ;  they  've  spent  even  what  Mis'  Crosby 
had  from  her  folks.  An'  there  's  worse  be 
hind  —  there  's  worse  behind,"  insisted  the 
speaker,  stoutly.  "  I  went  up  there  this 
spring,  as  you  know,  when  Mis'  Crosby  was 
at  death's  door  with  lung-fever.  I  went 
through  everything  fetchin'  of  her  round, 
and  was  there  five  weeks,  till  she  £ot  about. 
4 1  feel  to'a'ds  you  as  an  own  sister,'  says 


128  LAW  LANE. 

Abby  Crosby  to  me.  '  I  'm  a  neighboring 
woman  at  heart,'  says  she ;  4  and  just  you 
think  of  it,  that  my  man  had  to  leave  me 
alone,  sick  as  I  was,  while  he  went  for  you 
and  the  doctor,  not  riskin'  to  ask  Barnet's 
folks  to  send  for  help.  I  like  to  live  pleas 
ant,'  says  she  to  me,  and  bu'st  right  out 
a-cryin'.  I  knew  then  how  she  'd  felt  things 
all  these  years.  —  How  are  they  ever  goin' 
to  pay  more  court  bills  and  all  them  piles  o' 
damages,  if  the  farm 's  mortgaged  so  heavy  ?  " 
she  resumed.  "  Crosby's  farm  ain't  worth 
a  good  two  thirds  of  Barnet's.  They  've 
both  neglected  their  lands.  How  many  you 
got  so  fur,  Lyddy  ?  " 

Lyddy  proudly  displayed  her  gains  of 
blueberries  ;  the  pail  was  filling  very  fast, 
and  the  friends  were  at  their  usual  game  of 
rivalry.  Mrs.  Powder  had  been  the  faster 
picker  in  years  past,  and  she  now  doubled 
her  diligence. 

"  Ain't  the  sweet-fern  thick  an'  scented 
as  ever  you  see  ?  "  she  said.  "  Gimme  pas 
ture-lands  rather  'n  the  best  gardins  that 
grows.  If  I  can  have  a  sweet-brier  bush 
and  sweet-fern  patch  and  some  clumps  o' 
bayberry,  you  can  take  all  the  gardin  blooms. 
Look  how  folks  toils  with  witch-grass  and 


LAW  LANE.  129 

pusley  and  gets  a  starved  lot  o'  poor  sprigs, 
slug-eat,  and  all  dyin'  together  in  their  front 
yards,  when  they  might  get  better  comfort 
in  the  first  pasture  along  the  road.  I  guess 
there 's  somethin'  wild,  that  's  never  got 
tutored  out  o'  me.  I  must  ha'  be'n  made 
o'  somethin'  counter  to  town  dust.  I  never 
could  see  why  folks  wanted  to  go  off  an' 
live  out  o'  sight  o'  the  mountings,  an'  have 
everything  on  a  level." 

"  You  said  there  was  worse  to  tell  be 
hind,"  suggested  Lyddy  Bangs,  as  if  it  were 
only  common  politeness  to  show  an  appre 
ciation  of  the  friendly  offering. 

"  I  have  it  in  mind  to  get  round  to  that  in 
proper  course,"  responded  Mrs.  Powder,  a 
trifle  offended  by  the  mild  pertinacity.  "  I 
settled  it  in  my  mind  that  I  was  goin'  to  tell 
you  somethin'  for  a  kind  of  a  treat  the  day 
we  come  out  blueberryin'.  There  !  "  —  and 
Mrs,  Powder  rose  with  difficulty  from  her 
knees,  and  retreated  pompously  to  the  shade 
of  a  hemlock-tree  which  grew  over  a  shelv 
ing  rock  near  by. 

Lyddy  Bangs  could  not  resist  picking  a 
little  longer  in  an  unusually  fruitful  spot ; 
then  she  hastened  to  seat  herself  by  her 
friend.  It  was  no  common  occasion. 


130  LAW  LANE. 

Mrs.  Powder  was  very  warm  ;  and  further 
evaded  and  postponed  telling  the  secret  by 
wishing  that  she  were  as  light  on  foot  as  her 
companion,  and  deploring  her  increasing 
weight.  Then  she  demanded  a  second  sight 
of  the  blueberries,  which  were  compared  and 
decided  upon  as  to  quality  and  quantity. 
Then  the  cat,  which  had  been  left  at  some 
distance  on  her  rock,  came  trotting  toward 
her  mistress  in  a  disturbed  way,  and  after 
a  minute  of  security  in  a  comfortable  lap 
darted  away  again  in  a  strange,  excited  man 
ner. 

"  She  's  goin'  to  have  a  fit,  I  do  believe !  " 
exclaimed  Lyddy  Bangs,  quite  disheartened, 
for  the  cat  was  Mrs.  Powder's  darling  and 
she  might  leave  everything  to  go  in  search 
of  her. 

44  She  may  have  seen  a  snake  or  some 
thing.  She  often  gets  scared  and  runs  home 
when  we  're  out  a-trarvelin',''  said  the  cat's 
owner,  complacently,  arid  Lyddy's  spirits 
rose  again. 

"  I  suppose  you  never  suspected  that 
Ezra  Barnet  and  Ruth  Crosby  cared  the 
least  thing  about  one  another  ?  "  inquired 
the  keeper  of  the  secret  a  moment  later,  and 
the  listener  turned  toward  Mrs.  Powder 
with  a  startled  face. 


LA  W  LANE.  131 

"Now,  Harriet  Powder,  for  mercy's  sakes 
alive  !  "  was  all  that  she  could  say ;  but  Mrs. 
Powder  was  satisfied,  and  confirmed  the 
amazing  news  by  a  most  emphatic  nod. 

"  My  lawful  sakes !  what  be  they  goin' 
to  do  about  it  ?  "  inquired  Lyddy  Bangs, 
flushing  with  excitement.  "A  Barnet  an' 
a  Crosby  fall  in  love  !  Don't  you  rec'lect 
how  the  old  ones  was  al'ays  fightiii'  and 
callin'  names  when  we  was  all  to  school  to 
gether  ?  Times  is  changed,  certain." 

"  Now,  say  you  hope  to  die  if  ever  you  '11 
tell  a  word  I  say,"  pursued  Mrs.  Powder. 
"If  I  was  to  be  taken  away  to-morrow, 
you  'd  be  all  the  one  that  would  know  it  ex 
cept  Mis'  Crosby  and  Ezra  and  Ruth  them 
selves.  'T  was  nothin'  but  her  bein'  nigh 
to  death  that  urged  her  to  tell  me  the  state 
o'  things.  I  s'pose  she  thought  I  might 
favor  'em  in  time  to  come.  Abby  Crosby 
she  says  to  me,  '  Mis'  Powder,  my  poor  girl 
may  need  your  motherin'  care.'  An'  I  says, 
'  Mis'  Crosby,  she  shall  have  it ; '  and  then 
she  had  a  spasm  o'  pain,  and  we  harped  no 
more  that  day  as  I  remember." 

"  How  come  it  about  ?  I  should  n't  have 
told  anybody  that  asked  me  that  a  Barnet 
and  a  Crosby  ever  'changed  the  time  o'  day, 


132  LAW  LANE. 

much  less  kep'  company,"  protested  the  lis 
tener. 

"  Kep'  company !  pore  young  creatur's  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Powder.  "  They  've  hid  'em  away 
in  the  swamps  an'  hollers,  and  in  the  edge  o' 
the  growth,  at  nightfall,  for  the  sake  o'  git- 
tin'  a  word ;  an'  they  've  stole  out,  shiverin', 
into  that  plaguey  lane  o'  winter  nights.  I 
tell  ye  I  've  heard  hifalutin'  folks  say  that 
love  would  still  be  lord  of  all,  but  I  never 
was  'strained  to  believe  it  till  I  see  what  that 
boy  and  girl  was  willin'  to  undergo.  All 
the  hate  of  all  their  folks  is  turned  to  love 
in  them,  and  I  couldn't  help  a-watchiii'  of 
'em.  An'  I  ventured  to  send  Ruth  over  to 
my  house  after  my  alpaccy  aprin,  and  then 
I  made  an  arrant  out  to  the  spring-brook  to 
see  if  there  was  any  cresses  started  —  which 
I  knew  well  enough  there  was  n't  —  and  I 
spoke  right  out  bold  to  Ezra,  that  was  at 
work  on  a  piece  of  ditching  over  on  his  land. 
'  Ezra,'  says  I,  '  if  you  git  time,  just  run 
over  to  the  edge  o'  my  pasture  and  pick  me 
a  handful  o'  balm  o'  Gilead  buds.  I  want 
to  put  'em  in  half  a  pint  o'  new  rum  for 
Mis'  Crosby,  and  there  ain't  a  soul  to  send.' 
I  knew  he  'd  just  meet  her  coming  back,  if 
I  could  time  it  right  gittin'  of  Ruth  started. 


LAW  LANE.  133 

He  looked  at  me  kind  of  curl's,  and  pretty 
quick  I  see  him  leggin'  it  over  the  fields 
with  an  axe  and  a  couple  o'  ends  o'  board, 
like  he'd  got  to  mend  a  fence.  I  had  to 
keep  her  dinner  warm  for  her  till  ha'-past 
one  o'clock.  I  don't  know  what  he  men 
tioned  to  his  folks,  but  Ruth  she  come  an' 
kissed  me  hearty  when  she  first  come  inside 
the  door.  'T  is  harder  for  Ezra ;  he  ain't 
got  nobody  to  speak  to,  and  Ruth 's  got  her 
mother  if  she  is  a  Mis'  Much-afraid." 

"  I  don't  know 's  we  can  blame  Crosby 
for  not  wantin'  to  give  his  girl  to  the  Bar- 
nets,  after  they  've  got  away  all  his  sub 
stance,  his  means,  an'  his  cattle,  like  't  was 
in  the  Book  o'  Job,"  urged  Lyddy  Bangs. 
"  Seems  as  if  they  might  call  it  square  an' 
marry  the  young  folks  off,  but  they  won't 
nohow ;  't  will  only  fan  the  flame."  Lyddy 
Bangs  was  a  sentimental  person  ;  neighbor 
Powder  had  chosen  wisely  in  gaining  a  new 
friend  to  the  cause  of  Ezra  Barnet's  ap 
parently  hopeless  affection.  Unknown  to 
herself,  however,  she  had  been  putting  the 
lover's  secret  to  great  risk  of  untimely  be 
trayal. 

The  weather  was  most  beautiful  that  af 
ternoon  ;  there  was  an  almost  intoxicating 


134  LAW  LANE. 

freshness  and  delight  among  the  sweet  odors 
of  the  hillside  pasture,  and  the  two  elderly 
women  were  serene  at  heart  and  felt  like 
girls  again  as  they  talked  together.  They 
remembered  many  an  afternoon  like  this ; 
they  grew  more  and  more  confiding  as  they 
reviewed  the  past  and  their  life-long  friend 
ship.  A  stranger  might  have  gathered  only 
the  most  rural  and  prosaic  statements,  and 
a  tedious  succession  of  questions,  from  what 
Mrs.  Powder  and  Lyddy  Bangs  had  to  say  to 
each  other,  but  the  old  stories  of  true  love  and 
faithful  companionship  were  again  simply 
rehearsed.  Those  who  are  only  excited  by 
more  complicated  histories  too  often  forget 
that  there  are  no  new  plots  to  the  comedies 
and  tragedies  of  life.  They  are  played 
sometimes  by  country  people  in  homespun, 
sometimes  by  townsfolk  in  velvet  and  lace. 
Love  and  prosperity,  death  and  loss  and 
misfortune  —  the  stories  weave  themselves 
over  and  over  again,  never  mind  whether  the 
ploughman  or  the  wit  of  the  clubs  plays  the 
part  of  hero. 

The  two  homely  figures  sat  still  so  long 
that  they  seemed  to  become  permanent 
points  in  the  landscape,  and  the  small  birds, 
and  even  a  wary  chipmunk,  went  their  ways 


LAW  LANE.  135 

unmindful  of  Mrs.  Powder  and  Lyddy 
Bangs.  The  old  hemlock-tree,  under  which 
they  sat  discoursing,  towered  high  above  the 
young  pine-growth  which  clustered  thick  be 
hind  them  on  the  hillside.  In  the  middle 
of  a  comfortable  reflection  upon  the  Barnet 
grandfather's  foolishness  or  craftiness,  Mrs. 
Powder  gave  sudden  utterance  to  the  belief 
that  some  creature  up  in  the  tree  was  drop 
ping  pieces  of  bark  and  cones  all  over  her. 

"A  squirrel,  most  like,"  said  Lyddy 
Bangs,  looking  up  into  the  dense  branches. 
"The  tree  is  a-scatterin'  down,  ain't  it?  As 
you  was  sayin',  Grandsir  Barnet  must  have 
knowed  well  enough  what  he  was  about "  — 

"  Oh,  gorry !  oh,  git  out !  ow  —  o  —  w !  " 
suddenly  wailed  a  voice  overhead,  and  a  des 
perate  scramble  and  rustling  startled  the 
good  women  half  out  of  their  wits.  "  Ow, 
Mis'  Powder !  "  shrieked  a  familiar  voice, 
while  both  hearts  thumped  fast,  and  Joel 
came,  half  falling,  half  climbing,  down  out 
of  the  tree.  He  bawled,  and  beat  his  head 
with  his  hands,  and  at  last  rolled  in  agony 
among  the  bayberry  and  lamb-kill.  "  Look 
out  for  'em  !  "  he  shouted.  "  Oh,  gorry !  I 
thought 't  was  only  an  old  last-year's  hornet's 
nest  —  they  '11  sting  you,  too  !  " 


136  LAW  LANE. 

Mrs.  Powder  untied  her  apron  and  laid 
about  her  with  sure  aim.  Only  two  hornets 
were  to  be  seen ;  but  after  these  were  beaten 
to  the  earth,  and  she  stopped  to  regain  her 
breath,  Joel  hardly  dared  to  lift  his  head  or 
to  look  about  him. 

44  What  was  you  up  there  for,  anyhow  ?  " 
asked  Lyddy  Bangs,  with  severe  suspicion. 
"  Harking  to  us,  1 11  be  bound  !  "  But 
Mrs.  Powder,  who  knew  Joel's  disposition 
best,  elbowed  her  friend  into  silence  and  be 
gan  to  inquire  about  the  condition  of  his 
wounds.  There  was  a  deep-seated  hatred 
between  Joel  and  Miss  Bangs. 

"  Oh,  dear !  they  've  bit  me  all  over," 
groaned  the  boy.  "  Ain't  you  got  somethin' 
you  can  rub  on,  Mis'  Powder?"  —  and  the 
rural  remedy  of  fresh  earth  was  suggested. 

"  'T  is  too  dry  here,"  said  the  adviser. 
"Just  you  step  down  to  that  ma' shy  spot 
there  by  the  brook,  dear,  and  daub  you  with 
the  wet  mud  real  good,  and  't  will  ease  you 
right  away."  Mrs.  Powder's  voice  sounded 
compassionate,  but  her  spirit  and  temper  of 
mind  gave  promise  of  future  retribution. 

"  I  '11  teach  him  to  follow  us  out  eaves 
dropping,  this  fashion !  "  said  Lyddy  Bangs, 
when  the  boy  had  departed,  weeping.  "  I  'm 


LAW  LANE.  137 

more  'n  gratified  that  the  hornets  got  hold  of 
him!  I  hope  'twill  serve  him  for  a  lesson." 

"  Don't  you  r'ile  him  up  one  mite,  now," 
pleaded  Mrs.  Powder,  while  her  eyes  bore 
witness  of  hardly  controlled  anger.  "  He  's 
the  worst  tattle-tale  I  ever  see,  and  we  've 
put  ourselves  into  a  trap.  If  he  tells  his 
mother  she  '11  spread  it  all  over  town.  But 
I  should  no  more  thought  o'  his  bein'  up  in 
that  tree  than  o'  his  bein'  the  sarpent  in  the 
garden  o'  Eden.  You  leave  Joel  to  me,  and 
be  mild  with  him  's  you  can." 

The  culprit  approached,  still  lamenting. 
His  ear  and  cheek  were  hugely  swollen  al 
ready,  so  that  one  eye  was  nearly  closed. 
The  blueberry  expedition  was  relinquished, 
and  with  heavy  sighs  of  dissatisfaction 
Lyddy  Bangs  took  up  the  two  half-filled 
pails,  while  Mrs.  Powder  kindly  seized  Joel 
by  his  small,  thin  hand,  and  the  little  group 
moved  homeward  across  the  pasture. 

"  Where 's  your  hat  ?  "  asked  Lyddy, 
stopping  short,  after  they  had  walked  a  lit 
tle  distance. 

"  Hanging  on  a  limb  up  by  the  wop's 
nest,"  answered  Joel.  "  Oh,  git  me  home, 
Mis'  Powder !  " 


138  LAW  LANE. 


III. 

No  one  would  suspect,  from  the  look  of 
the  lane  itself,  that  it  had  always  been  such 
a  provoker  of  wrath,  and  even  a  famous  bat 
tle-ground.  While  petty  wars  had  raged 
between  the  men  and  women  of  the  old 
farms,  walnut-trees  had  grown  high  in  air, 
and  apple-trees  had  leaned  their  heavy 
branches  on  the  stone  walls  and,  year  after 
year,  decked  themselves  in  pink-and-white 
blossoms  to  arch  this  unlucky  by-way  for  a 
triumphal  procession  of  peace  that  never 
came.  Birds  built  their  nests  in  the  boughs 
and  pecked  the  ripe  blackberries ;  green 
brakes  and  wild  roses  and  tall  barberry- 
bushes  flourished  in  their  season  on  either 
side  the  wheel-ruts.  It  was  a  remarkably 
pleasant  country  lane,  where  children  might 
play  and  lovers  might  linger.  No  one  would 
imagine  that  this  lane  had  its  lawsuits  and 
damages,  its  annual  crop  of  briefs,  and  succes 
sion  of  surveyors  and  quarrelsome  partisans  ; 
or  that  in  every  generation  of  owners  each 
man  must  be  either  plaintiff  or  defendant. 

The  surroundings  looked  permanent 
enough.  No  one  would  suspect  that  a  cer- 


LA  W  LANE.  139 

tain  piece  of  wall  had  been  more  than  once 
thrown  down  by  night  and  built  again,  an 
grily,  by  day ;  or  that  a  well-timbered  corn- 
house  had  been  the  cause  of  much  litigation, 
and  even  now  looked,  when  you  came  to 
know  its  story,  as  if  it  stood  on  its  long, 
straight  legs,  like  an  ungainly,  top-heavy 
beast,  all  ready  to  stalk  away  when  its  posi 
tion  became  too  dangerous.  The  Barnets 
had  built  it  beyond  their  boundary ;  it  had 
been  moved  two  or  three  times,  backward 
and  forward. 

The  Barnet  house  and  land  stood  between 
the  Crosby  farm  and  the  high-road ;  the 
Crosbys  had  never  been  able  to  reach  the 
highway  without  passing  their  enemies  under 
full  fire  of  ugly  looks  or  taunting  voices. 
The  intricacies  of  legal  complications  in  the 
matter  of  right  of  way  would  be  impossible 
to  explain.  They  had  never  been  very  clear 
to  any  impartial  investigator.  Barnets  and 
Crosbys  had  gone  to  their  graves  with  bitter 
hatred  and  sullen  desire  for  revenge  in  their 
hearts.  Perhaps  this  one  great  interest,  out 
side  the  simple  matters  of  food  and  clothing 
and  farmers'  work,  had  taken  the  place  to 
them  of  drama  and  literature  and  art.  One 
could  not  help  thinking,  as  he  looked  at  the 


140  LA  W  LANE. 

decrepit  fences  and  mossy,  warped  roofs  and 
buckling  walls,  to  how  much  better  use  so 
much  money  might  have  been  put.  The 
costs  of  court  and  the  lawyers'  fees  had 
taken  everything,  and  men  had  drudged,  in 
heat  and  frost,  and  women  had  pinched  and 
slaved  to  pay  the  lane's  bills.  Both  the 
Barnet  and  Crosby  of  the  present  time  stood 
well  enough  in  the  opinion  of  other  neigh 
bors.  They  were  hard-fisted,  honest  men ; 
the  fight  was  inherited  to  begin  with,  and 
they  were  stubborn  enough  to  hold  fast  to 
the  fight.  Law  Lane  was  as  well  known 
as  the  county  roads  in  half  a  dozen  towns. 
Perhaps  its  irreconcilable  owners  felt  a 
thrill  of  enmity  that  had  corne  straight  down 
from  Scottish  border-frays,  as  they  glanced 
along  its  crooked  length.  Who  could  be 
lieve  that  the  son  and  daughter  of  the  war 
ring  households,  instead  of  being  ready  to 
lift  the  torch  in  their  turn,  had  weakly  and 
misguidedly  fallen  in  love  with  each  other  ? 
Nobody  liked  Mrs.  Barnet.  She  was  a 
cross-grained,  suspicious  soul,  who  was  a 
tyrant  and  terror  of  discomfort  in  her  own 
household  whenever  the  course  of  events  ran 
counter  to  her  preference.  Her  son  Ezra 
was  a  complete  contrast  to  her  in  disposition, 


LAW  LANE.  141 

and  to  his  narrow-minded,  prejudiced  father 
as  well.  The  elder  Ezra  was  capable  of 
better  things,  however,  and  might  have  been 
reared  to  friendliness  and  justice,  if  the 
Crosby  of  his  youthful  day  had  not  been 
specially  aggravating  and  the  annals  of  Law 
Lane  at  their  darkest  page.  If  there  had 
been  another  boy  to  match  young  Ezra,  on 
the  Crosby  farm,  the  two  might  easily  have 
fostered  their  natural  boyish  rivalries  until 
something  worse  came  into  being ;  but  when 
one's  enemy  is  only  a  sweet-faced  little  girl, 
it  is  very  hard  to  impute  to  her  all  manner 
of  discredit  and  serpent-like  power  of  evil. 
At  least,  so  Ezra  Barnet  the  younger  felt  in 
his  inmost  heart ;  and  though  he  minded  his 
mother  for  the  sake  of  peace,  and  played  his 
solitary  games  and  built  his  unapplauded 
dams  and  woodchuck  -  traps  on  his  own 
side  of  the  fences,  he  always  saw  Ruth 
Crosby  as  she  came  and  went,  and  liked  her 
better  and  better  as  years  went  by.  When 
the  tide  of  love  rose  higher  than  the  young 
people's  steady  heads,  they  soon  laid  fast 
hold  of  freedom.  With  all  their  perplexi 
ties,  life  was  by  no  means  at  its  worst,  and 
rural  diplomacy  must  bend  all  its  energies 
to  hinder  these  unexpected  lovers. 


142  LA  W  LANE. 

Ezra  Barnet  had  never  so  much  as  en 
tered  the  Crosby  house  ;  the  families  were 
severed  beyond  the  reuniting  power  of  even 
a  funeral.  Ezra  could  only  try  to  imagine 
the  room  to  which  his  Ruth  had  returned 
one  summer  evening  after  he  had  left  her, 
reluctantly,  because  the  time  drew  near  for 
his  father's  return  from  the  village.  His 
mother  had  been  in  a  peculiarly  bad  temper 
all  day,  and  he  had  been  glad  to  escape 
from  her  unwelcome  insistence  that  he  should 
marry  any  one  of  two  or  three  capable  girls, 
and  so  furnish  some  help  in  the  housekeep 
ing.  Ezra  had  often  heard  this  suggestion 
of  his  duty,  and,  tired  and  provoked  at  last, 
he  had  stolen  out  to  the  garden  and  wan 
dered  beyond  it  to  the  brook  and  out  to  the 
fields.  Somewhere,  somehow,  he  had  met 
Ruth,  and  the  lovers  bewailed  their  trials 
with  unusual  sorrow  and  impatience.  It 
seemed  very  hard  to  wait.  Young  Barnet 
was  ready  to  persuade  the  tearful  girl  that 
they  must  go  away  together  and  establish  a 
peaceful  home  of  their  own.  He  was  heartily 
ashamed  because  the  last  verdict  was  in  his 
father's  favor,  and  Ruth  forebore  to  wound 
him  with  any  glimpse  of  the  straits  to  which 
her  own  father  had  been  reduced.  She  was 


LAW  LANE.  143 

too  dutiful  to  leave  the  pinched  household, 
where  her  help  was  needed  more  than  ever ; 
she  persuaded  her  lover  that  they  were  sure 
to  be  happy  at  last  —  indeed,  were  not  they 
happy  now  ?  How  much  worse  it  would  be 
if  they  could  not  safely  seize  so  many  op 
portunities,  brief  though  they  were,  of  being 
together !  If  the  fight  had  been  less  absorb 
ing  and  the  animosity  less  bitter,  they  might 
have  been  suspected  long  ago. 

So  Ruth  and  Ezra  parted,  with  uncounted 
kisses,  and  Ezra  went  back  to  the  dingy- 
walled  kitchen,  where  his  mother  sat  alone. 
It  was  hardly  past  twilight  out  of  doors,  but 
Mrs.  Barnet  had  lighted  a  kerosene-lamp, 
and  sat  near  the  small  open  window  mend 
ing  a  hot-looking  old  coat.  She  looked  so 
needlessly  uncomfortable  and  surly  that  her 
son  was  filled  with  pity,  as  he  stood  watch 
ing  her,  there  among  the  moths  and  beetles 
that  buffeted  the  lamp-chimney. 

"  Why  don't  you  put  down  your  sewing 
and  come  out  a  little  ways  up  the  road, 
mother,  and  get  cooled  off  ? "  he  asked, 
pleasantly  ;  but  she  only  twitched  herself  in 
her  chair  and  snapped  off  another  needleful 
of  linen  thread. 

"  I  can't  spare  no  time  to  go  gallivanting 


144  LAW  LANE. 

like  some  folks,"  she  answered.  "  I  always 
have  had  to  work,  and  I  always  shall.  I 
see  that  Crosby  girl  mincin'  by  an  hour  ago, 
as  if  she  'd  be'n  off  all  the  afternoon.  Folks 
that  think  she 's  so  amiable  about  saving 
her  mother's  strength  would  be  surprised  at 
the  way  she  dawdles  round,  I  guess  "  —  and 
Mrs.  Barnet  crushed  an  offending  beetle 
with  her  brass  thimble  in  a  fashion  that  dis 
gusted  Ezra.  Somehow,  his  mother  had  a 
vague  instinct  that  he  did  not  like  to  hear 
sharp  words  about  Ruth  Crosby.  Yet  he 
rarely  had  been  betrayed  into  an  ill-judged 
defense.  He  had  left  Ruth  only  a  minute 
ago;  he  knew  exactly  what  she  had  been 
doing  all  day,  and  from  what  kind  errand 
she  had  been  returning ;  the  blood  rushed 
quickly  to  his  face,  and  he  rose  from  his  seat 
by  the  table  and  went  out  to  the  kitchen 
doorstep.  The  air  was  cool  and  sweet,  and 
a  sleepy  bird  chirped  once  or  twice  from  an 
elm-bough  overhead.  The  moon  was  near 
its  rising,  and  he  could  see  the  great  shapes 
of  the  mountains  that  lay  to  the  eastward. 
He  forgot  his  mother,  and  began  to  think 
about  Ruth  again  ;  he  wondered  if  she  were 
not  thinking  of  him,  and  meant  to  ask  her 
if  she  remembered  an  especial  feeling  of 


LAW  LANE.  145 

nearness  just  at  this  hour.     Ezra  turned  to 
look  at  the  clocks  to  mark  the  exact  time. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Barnet,  as  she  saw  him 
try  to  discover  the  hour,  "  't  is  time  that 
father  was  to  home.  I  s'pose,  bein'  mail- 
night,  everybody  was  out  to  the  post-office 
to  hear  the  news,  and  most  like  he  's  bawlin' 
himself  hoarse  about  fall  'lections  or  some 
thing.  He  ain't  got  done  braggin'  about 
our  gittin'  the  case,  neither.  There 's  al 
ways  some  new  one  that  wants  to  git  the 
p'ints  right  from  headquarters.  I  didn't 
see  Crosby  go  by,  did  you  ?  " 

"  He  'd  have  had  to  foot  it  by  the  path 
'cross-lots,"  replied  Ezra,  gravely,  from  the 
doorstep.  "  He  's  sold  his  hoss." 

"  He  ain't !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barnet, 
with  a  chuckle.  "  I  s'pose  they  're  proddin' 
him  for  the  money  up  to  court.  Guess  he 
won't  try  to  fight  us  again  for  one  while." 

Ezra  said  nothing ;  he  could  not  bear 
this  sort  of  thing  much  longer.  "  I  won't 
be  kept  like  a  toad  under  a  harrow,"  he 
muttered  to  himself.  "  I  think  it  seems 
kind  of  hard,"  he  ventured  to  say  aloud. 
"  Now  he  's  got  to  hire  when  fall  work  conies 
on,  and  "  — 

The  hard-hearted  woman  within  had  long 


146  LAW  LANE. 

been  trying  to  provoke  her  peaceable  son 
into  an  argument,  and  now  the  occasion  had 
come.  Ezra  restrained  himself  from  speech 
with  a  desperate  effort,  and  stopped  his  ears 
to  the  sound  of  his  mother's  accusing  voice. 
In  the  middle  of  her  harangue  a  wagon  was 
driven  into  the  yard,  and  his  father  left  it 
quickly  and  came  toward  the  door. 

"  Come  in  here,  you  lout !  "  he  shouted, 
angrily.  "  I  want  to  look  at  you !  I  want 
to  see  what  such  a  mean-spirited  sneak  has 
got  to  say  for  himself."  Then  changing  his 
voice  to  a  whine,  he  begged  Ezra,  who  had 
caught  him  from  falling  as  he  stumbled  over 
the  step,  "  Come  in,  boy,  an'  tell  me  't  ain't 
true.  I  guess  they  was  only  thornin'  of  me 
up  ;  you  ain't  took  a  shine  to  that  Crosby 
miss,  now,  have  you  ?  " 

"  No  son  of  mine  —  no  son  of  mine  !  " 
burst  out  the  mother,  who  had  been  startled 
by  the  sudden  entrance  of  the  news-bringer. 
Her  volubility  was  promptly  set  free,  and 
Ezra  looked  from  his  father's  face  to  his 
mother's. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  turning  away  from  the 
scold,  who  was  nearly  inarticulate  in  her  ex 
cess  of  rage  —  "  father,  I  'd  rather  talk  to 
you,  if  you  want  to  hear  what  I  've  got  to 
say.  Mother  's  got  no  reason  in  her." 


LAW  LANE.  147 

"  Ezry,"  said  the  eleW  man,  "  I  see  how 
'tis.  Let  your  ma'am  talk  all  she  will. 
I  'm  broke  with  shame  of  ye  !  "  —  his  voice 
choked  weakly  in  his  throat.  "  Either  you 
tell  me  't  is  all  nonsense,  or  you  go  out  o' 
that  door  and  shut  it  after  you  for  good. 
An'  ye  're  all  the  boy  I  've  got." 

The  woman  had  stopped  at  last,  mastered 
by  the  terror  of  the  moment.  Her  hus 
band's  face  was  gray  with  passion  ;  her  son's 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes  were  full 
of  tears.  Mrs.  Barnet's  tongue  for  once 
had  lost  its  cunning. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  as  long 
as  they  could ;  the  younger  man's  eyes  fell 
first.  "  I  wish  you  would  n't  be  hasty,"  he 
said  ;  "  to-morrow  "  — 

"  You  've  heard,"  was  the  only  answer ; 
and  in  a  moment  more  Ezra  Barnet  reached 
to  the  table  and  took  his  old  straw  hat  which 
lay  there. 

"  Good-by,  father ! "  he  said,  steadily. 
"  I  think  you  're  wrong,  sir ;  but  I  never 
meant  to  carry  on  that  old  fight  and  live  like 
the  heathen."  And  then,  young  and  strong 
and  angry,  he  left  the  kitchen. 

"  He  might  have  took  some  notice  o'  me, 
if  he 's  goin'  for  good,"  said  the  mother 


148  LAW  LANE. 

spitefully ;  but  her  son  did  not  hear  this 
taunt,  and  the  father  only  tottered  where  he 
stood.  The  moths  struck  against  his  face  as 
if  it  were  a  piece  of  wood  ;  he  sank  feebly 
into  a  chair,  muttering,  and  trying  to  fortify 
himself  in  his  spent  anger. 

Ezra  went  out,  dazed  and  giddy.  But  he 
found  the  young  horse  wandering  about  the 
yard,  eager  for  his  supper  and  fretful  at  the 
strange  delay.  He  unharnessed  the  creature 
and  backed  the  wagon  under  the  shed ;  then 
he  turned  and  looked  at  the  house  —  should 
he  go  in  ?  No !  The  fighting  instinct, 
which  had  kept  firm  grasp  on  father  and 
grandfather,  took  possession  of  Ezra  now. 
He  crossed  the  yard  and  went  out  at  the  gate, 
and  down  the  lane's  end  to  the  main  road. 
The  father  and  mother  listened  to  his  foot 
steps,  and  the  man  gave  a  heavy  groan. 

"Let  him  go — let  him  go!  'twill  teach 
him  a  lesson !  "  said  Mrs.  Barnet,  with  some 
thing  of  her  usual  spirit.  She  could  not  say 
more,  though  she  tried  her  best ;  the  occa 
sion  was  far  too  great. 

How  many  times  that  summer  Mrs.  Pow 
der  attempted  to  wreak  vengeance  upon 
Joel,  the  tattle-tale ;  into  what  depths  of  in- 


LAW  LANE.  149 

termittent  remorse  the  mischief-making  boy 
was  resolutely  plunged,  who  shall  describe  ? 
No  more  luncheons  of  generous  provision  ; 
no  more  jovial  skirmishing  at  the  kitchen 
windows,  or  liberal  payment  for  easy  er 
rands.  Whenever  Mrs.  Powder  saw  Lyddy 
Bangs,  or  any  other  intimate  and  sympa 
thetic  friend,  she  bewailed  her  careless  con 
fidences  under  the  hemlock- tree  and  detailed 
her  anxious  attentions  to  the  hornet-stung 
eavesdropper. 

"  I  went  right  home,"  she  would  say,  sor 
rowfully  ;  "  I  filled  him  plumb-full  with  as 
good  a  supper  as  I  could  gather  up,  and  I 
took  all  the  fire  out  o'  them  hornit-stings 
with  the  best  o'  remedies.  '  Joel,  dear,' 
says  I,  '  you  won't  lose  by  it  if  you  keep 
your  mouth  shut  about  them  words  I  spoke 
to  Lyddy  Bangs,'  and  he  was  that  pious  I 
might  ha'  known  he  meant  mischief.  They 
ain't  boys  nor  men,  they  'ro  divils,  when 
they  come  to  that  size,  and  so  you  mark  my 
words !  But  his  mother  never  could  keep 
nothing  to  herself,  and  I  knew  it  from  past 
sorrers  ;  and  I  never  slept  a  wink  that  night 
—  sure  's  you  live  —  till  the  roosters  crowed 
for  day." 

"  Perhaps  't  won't  do  nothin'  but  good  !  " 


150  LAW  LANE. 

Lyddy  Bangs  would  say,  consolingly. 
"  Perhaps  the  young  folks  '11  git  each  other 
a  sight  the  sooner.  They  'd  had  to  kepr  it 
to  theirselves  till  they  was  gray-headed,  'less 
somebody  let  the  cat  out  o'  the  bag." 

44  Don't  you  rec'lect  how  my  cat  acted 
that  day !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Powder,  excit 
edly.  "  How  she  was  good  as  took  with  a 
fit !  She  knowed  well  enough  what  was 
brewin' ;  I  only  wish  we  'd  had  half  of  her 


IV. 

The  day  before  Christmas  all  the  long 
valley  was  white  with  deep,  new-fallen  snow. 
The  road  which  led  up  from  the  neighboring 
village  and  the  railroad  station  stretched 
along  the  western  slope  —  a  mere  trail,  un 
trodden  and  unbroken.  The  storm  had  just 
ceased  ;  the  high  mountain-peaks  were  clear 
and  keen  and  rose-tinted  with  the  waning 
light ;  the  hills  were  no  longer  green  with 
their  covering  of  pines  and  maples  and 
beeches,  but  gray  with  bare  branches,  and  a 
cold,  dense  color,  almost  black,  where  the 
evergreens  grew  thickest.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  valley  the  farmsteads  were 


LAW  LANE.  151 

mapped  out  as  if  in  etching  or  pen-drawing ; 
the  far-away  orchards  were  drawn  with  a  cu 
rious  exactness  and  regularity,  the  crooked 
boughs  of  the  apple-trees  and  the  longer 
lines  of  the  walnuts  and  ashes  and  elms  came 
out  against  the  snow  with  clear  beauty. 
The  fences  and  walls  were  buried  in  snow  ; 
the  farm-houses  and  barns  were  petty  shapes 
in  their  right-angled  unlikeness  to  natural 
growths.  You  were  half  amused,  half 
shocked,  as  the  thought  came  to  you  of  in 
different  creatures  called  men  and  women, 
who  busied  themselves  within  those  narrow 
walls,  under  so  vast  a  sky,  and  fancied  the 
whole  importance  of  the  universe  was  belit 
tled  by  that  of  their  few  pent  acres.  What 
a  limitless  world  lay  outside  those  play 
thing-farms,  yet  what  beginnings  of  immor 
tal  things  the  small  gray  houses  had  known ! 

The  day  before  Christmas  !  —  a  festival 
which  seemed  in  that  neighborhood  to  be  of 
modern  origin.  The  observance  of  it  was 
hardly  popular  yet  among  the  elder  people, 
but  Christmas  had  been  appropriated,  never 
theless,  as  if  everybody  had  felt  the  lack  of 
it.  New  Year's  Day  never  was  sufficient 
for  New  England,  even  in  its  least  mirthful 


152  LAW  LANE. 

decades.  For  those  persons  who  took  true 
joy  in  life,  something  deeper  was  needed 
than  the  spread-eagle  self -congratulations  of 
the  Fourth  of  July,  or  the  family  reunions 
of  Thanksgiving  Day.  There  were  no  bells 
ringing  which  the  country-folks  in  Law  Lane 
might  listen  for  on  Christmas  Eve ;  but 
something  more  than  the  joy  that  is  felt  in 
the  poorest  dwelling  when  a  little  child,  with 
all  its  possibilities,  is  born ;  something  hap 
pier  still  came  through  that  snowy  valley 
with  the  thought  of  a  Christmas-Child  who 
"was  the  bringer-in  and  founder  of  the 
reign  of  the  higher  life."  This  was  the 
greater  Thanksgiving  Day,  when  the  whole 
of  Christendom  is  called  to  praise  and  pray 
and  hear  the  good-tidings,  and  every  heart 
catches  something  of  the  joyful  inspirations 
of  good-will  to  men. 

Ezra  Barnet  sat  on  a  fallen  tree  from 
which  he  had  brushed  the  powdery  snow.  It 
was  hard  work  wading  through  the  drifts, 
and  he  had  made  good  headway  up  the  long 
hill  before  he  stopped  to  rest.  Across  the 
valley  in  the  fading  daylight  he  saw  the  two 
farms,  and  could  even  trace  the  course  of  Law 
Lane  itself,  marked  by  the  well-known  trees. 


LAW  LANE.  153 

How  small  his  own  great  nut-tree  looked  at 
this  distance !  The  two  houses,  with  their 
larger  and  smaller  out-buildings  and  snow- 
topped  woodpiles,  looked  as  if  they  had  crept 
near  together  for  protection  and  companion 
ship.  There  were  no  other  houses  within  a 
wide  space.  Ezra  knew  how  remote  the 
homes  really  were  from  each  other,  judged 
by  any  existing  sympathy  and  interest.  He 
thought  of  his  bare,  unnourished  boyhood 
with  something  like  resentment;  then  he 
remembered  how  small  had  been  his  par 
ents'  experience,  what  poor  ambition  had 
been  fostered  in  them  by  their  lives  ;  even 
his  mother's  impatience  with  the  efforts  he 
had  made  to  bring  a  little  more  comfort 
and  pleasantness  to  the  old  farm-house  was 
thought  of  with  pity  for  her  innate  lack  of 
pleasure  in  pleasant  things.  Ezra  himself 
was  made  up  of  inadequacies,  being  born 
and  bred  of  the  Barnets.  He  was  at  work 
on  the  railroad  now,  with  small  pay ;  but  he 
had  always  known  that  there  could  be  some 
thing  better  than  the  life  in  their  farm 
house,  while  his  mother  did  not.  A  different 
feeling  came  over  him  as  he  thought  whom 
the  other  farm-house  sheltered;  he  had 
looked  for  that  first,  to  see  if  it  were  stand- 


154  LAW  LANE. 

ing  safe.  Ruth's  last  letter  had  come  only 
the  day  before.  This  Christmas  holiday 
was  to  be  a  surprise  to  her.  He  wondered 
whether  Ruth's  father  would  let  him  in. 

Never  mind  !  he  could  sleep  in  the  barn 
among  the  hay  ;  and  Ezra  dropped  into  the 
snow  again  from  the  old  tree-trunk  and  went 
his  way.  There  was  a  small  house  just  past 
a  bend  in  the  road,  and  he  quickened  his 
steps  toward  it.  Alas  !  there  was  no  smoke 
in  Mrs.  Powder's  chimney.  She  was  away 
on  one  of  her  visiting  tours  ;  nursing  some 
sick  person,  perhaps.  She  would  have 
housed  him  for  the  night  most  gladly  ;  now 
he  must  take  his  chances  in  Law  Lane. 

The  darkness  was  already  beginning  to 
fall ;  there  was  a  curious  brownness  in  the 
air,  like  summer  twilight ;  the  cold  air  became 
sharper,  and  the  young  man  shivered  a  little 
as  he  walked.  He  could  not  follow  the  left- 
hand  road,  where  it  led  among  hospitable 
neighbors,  but  turned  bravely  off  toward  his 
old  home  —  a  long,  lonely  walk  at  any  time 
of  the  year,  among  woods  and  thickets  all 
well  known  to  him,  and  as  familiar  as  they 
were  to  the  wild  creatures  that  haunted 
them.  Yet  Ezra  Barnet  did  not  find  it  easy 
to  whistle  as  he  went  along. 


LAW  LANE.  155 

Suddenly,  from  behind  a  scrub-oak  that 
was  heavily  laden  with  dead  leaves  and 
snow,  leaped  a  small  figure,  and  Ezra  was 
for  the  moment  much  startled.  The  boy 
carried  a  rabbit-trap  with  unusual  care,  and 
placed  it  on  the  snow-drift  before  which  he 
stood  waist-deep  already.  "  Gorry,  Ezry ! 
you  most  scared  me  to  pieces  !  "  said  Joel, 
in  a  perfectly  calm  tone.  "  Wish  you  Merry 
Christmas !  Folks  '11  be  lookin'  for  you  ; 
they  did  n't  s'pose  you  'd  git  home  before 
to-morrow,  though." 

"  Looking  for  me  ?  "  repeated  the  young 
man,  with  surprise.  "  I  did  n't  send  no 
word"  — 

"Ain't  you  heard  nothin'  'bout  your 
ma'am's  being  took  up  for  dead  ?  " 

"No,  I  ain't;  and  you  ain't  foolin'  me 
with  your  stories,  Joel  Smith  ?  You  need 
n't  play  off  any  of  your  mischief  onto  me." 

"  What  you  gittin'  mad  with  me  about  ?  " 
inquired  Joel,  with  a  plaintive  tone  in  his 
voice.  "  She  got  a  fall  out  in  the  barn  this 
mornin',  an'  it  liked  to  killed  her.  Most  folks 
ain't  heard  nothin'  'bout  it  'cause  its  been 
snowin'  so.  They  come  for  Mis'  Powder 
and  she  called  out  to  our  folks,  as  they 
brought  her  round  by  the  way  of  Asa  Pack- 


156  LAW  LANE. 

er's  store  to  git  some  opodildack  or  some- 
thin'." 

Ezra  asked  no  more  questions,  but  strode 
past  the  boy,  who  looked  after  him  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  lifted  the  heavy  box-trap  and 
started  homeward.  The  imprisoned  rabbit 
had  been  snowed  up  since  the  day  before  at 
least,  and  Joel  felt  humane  anxieties,  else  he 
would  have  followed  Ezra  at  a  proper  dis 
tance  and  learned  something  of  his  recep 
tion. 

Mrs.  Powder  was  reigning  triumphant  in 
the  Barnet  house,  being  nurse,  housekeeper, 
and  spiritual  adviser  all  in  one.  She  had 
been  longing  for  an  excuse  to  spend  at  least 
half  a  day  under  that  cheerless  roof  for 
many  months,  but  occasion  had  not  offered. 
She  found  the  responsibility  of  the  parted 
lovers  weighing  more  and  more  heavily  on 
her  mind,  and  had  set  her  strong  will  at 
work  to  find  some  way  of  reuniting  them, 
and  even  to  restore  a  long-banished  peace  to 
the  farms.  She  would  not  like  to  confess 
that  a  mild  satisfaction  caused  her  heart  to 
feel  warm  and  buoyant  when  an  urgent  sum 
mons  had  come  at  last ;  but  such  was  the 
simple  truth.  A  man  who  had  been  felling 


LA  W  LANE.  157 

trees  on  the  farm  brought  the  news,  melan 
choly  to  hear  under  other  circumstances,  that 
Mrs.  Barnet  had  been  hunting  eggs  in  a 
stray  nest  in  the  hay-mow,  and  had  slipped 
to  the  floor  and  been  taken  up  insensible. 
Bones  were  undoubtedly  broken ;  she  was  a 
heavy  woman,  and  had  hardly  recovered  her 
senses.  The  doctor  must  be  found  as  soon 
as  possible.  Mrs.  Powder  hastily  put  her 
house  to  rights,  and,  with  a  good  round 
bundle  of  what  she  called  her  needments, 
set  forth  on  the  welcome  enterprise.  On  the 
way  she  could  hardly  keep  herself  from  un 
due  cheerfulness,  and  if  ever  there  was  likely 
to  be  a  reassuring  presence  in  a  sick-room  it 
was  Harriet  Powder's  that  December  day. 

She  entered  the  gloomy  kitchen  looking 
like  a  two-footed  snow-drift,  her  big  round 
shoulders  were  so  heaped  with  the  damp 
white  flakes.  Old  Ezra  Barnet  sat  by  the 
stove  in  utter  despair,  and  waved  a  limp 
hand  warningly  toward  the  bedroom  door. 

"  She 's  layin'  in  a  sog,"  he  said,  hope 
lessly.  "  I  ought  to  thought  to  send  word 
to  pore  Ezry  —  all  the  boy  she  ever  had." 

Mrs.  Powder  calmly  removed  her  snowy 
outer  garments,  and  tried  to  warm  her  hands 
over  the  fire. 


158  LAW  LANE. 

"  Put  in  a  couple  o'  sticks  of  good  dry 
wood,"  she  suggested,  in  a  soothing  voice ; 
and  the  farmer  felt  his  spirits  brighten,  he 
knew  not  why.  Then  the  whole  -  souled, 
hearty  woman  walked  into  the  bedroom. 

"  All  I  could  see,"  she  related  afterward, 
"  was  the  end  of  Jane  Barnet's  nose,  and  I 
was  just  as  sure  then  as  I  be  now  that  she 
was  likely  to  continner ;  but  I  set  down  side 
of  the  bed  and  got  holt  of  her  hand,  and  she 
groaned  two  or  three  times  real  desperate. 
I  wished  the  doctor  was  there,  to  see  if  any 
thing  really  ailed  her  ;  but  I  someways 
knowed  there  wa'n't,  'less  't  was  gittin'  over 
such  a  jounce.  I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  never 
said  nothin',  and  I  went  back  out  into  the 
kitchen.  '  She  's  a  very  sick  woman,'  says 
I,  loud  enough  for  her  to  hear  me  ;  I  knew 
't  would  please  her.  There  was  a  good  deal 
to  do,  and  I  put  on  my  aprin  and  took  right 
holt  and  begun  to  lay  about  me  and  git 
dinner  ;  the  men-folks  was  wiltin'  for  want 
o'  somethin',  it  being  nigh  three  o'clock. 
An'  then  I  got  Jane  to  feel  more  comfort 
able  with  ondressin'  of  her,  for  all  she  'd 
hardly  let  me  touch  of  her  —  poor  creatur', 
I  expect  she  did  feel  sore  !  —  and  then  day 
light  was  failin'  and  I  felt  kind  o'  spent,  so 


LAW  LANE.  159 

I  set  me  down  in  a  cheer  by  the  bed-head 
and  was  speechless,  too.  I  knew  if  she  was 
able  to  speak  she  could  n't  hold  in  no  great 
spell  longer. 

"After  a  while  she  stirred  a  little  and 
groaned,  and  then  says  she,  '  Ain't  the  doc 
tor  comin'  ? '  And  I  peaced  her  up  well 's 
I  could.  'Be  I  very  bad  off,  Harri't?' 
says  she. 

"  '  We  '11  hope  for  the  best,  Jane,'  says  I ; 
and  that  minute  the  notion  come  to  me  how 
I  'd  work  her  round,  an'  I  like  to  laughed 
right  out,  but  I  did  n't. 

"  '  If  I  should  lose  me  again,  you  must  see 
to  sendin'  for  my  son,'  says  she  ;  '  his  father  's 
got  no  head.' 

"  '  I  will,'  says  I,  real  solemn.  '  An'  you 
can  trust  me  with  anything  you  feel  to  say, 
sister  Barnet.' 

"  She  kind  of  opened  her  eye  that  was 
next  to  me  and  surveyed  my  countenance 
sharp,  but  I  looked  serious,  and  she  groaned 
real  honest.  '  Be  I  like  old  Mis'  Topliff  ? ' 
she  whispered,  and  I  kind  o'  nodded  an'  put 
my  hand  up  to  my  eyes.  She  was  like  her, 
too  ;  some  like  her,  but  not  nigh  so  bad,  for 
Mis'  Topliff  was  hurt  so  fallin'  down  the 
sullar-stairs  that  she  never  got  over  it  an' 
died  the  day  after. 


160  LAW  LANE. 

"  '  Oh,  my  sakes  ! '  she  bu'st  out  whinin', 
'  I  can't  be  took  away  now.  I  ain't  a-goin' 
to  die  right  off,  be  I,  Mis'  Powder  ?  ' 

"  4 1  ain't  the  one  to  give  ye  hope.  In  the 
midst  of  life  we  are  in  death.  We  ain't 
sure  of  the  next  minute,  none  of  us,'  says  I, 
meanin'  it  general,  but  discoursin'  away  like 
an  old  book  o'  sermons. 

"  '  I  do  feel  kind  o'  failin',  now,'  says  she. 
4  Oh,  can't  you  do  nothin'  ?  '  —  and  I  come 
over  an'  set  on  the  foot  o'  the  bed  an'  looked 
right  at  her.  I  knew  she  was  a  dreadful 
notional  woman,  and  always  made  a  fuss 
when  anything  was  the  matter  with  her ; 
could  n't  bear  no  kind  o'  pain. 

"  '  Sister  Barnet,'  says  I,  '  don't  you  bear 
nothin'  on  your  mind  you  'd  like  to  see 
righted  before  you  go  ?  I  know  you  ain't 
been  at  peace  with  Crosby's  folks,  and 
't  ain't  none  o'  my  business,  but  I  should  n't 
want  to  be  called  away  with  hard  feelin's  in 
my  heart.  You  must  overlook  my  speaking 
right  out,  but  I  should  want  to  be  so  used 
myself.' 

"  Poor  old  creatur'  !  She  had  an  awful 
fight  of  it,  but  she  beat  her  temper  for  once 
an'  give  in.  'I  do  forgive  all  them  Cros 
bys,'  says  she,  an'  rolled  up  her  eyes.  I 


LAW  LANE.  161 

says  to  myself  that  wa'n't  all  I  wanted,  but 
I  let  her  alone  a  spell,  and  set  there  watchin' 
as  if  I  expected  her  to  breathe  her  last  any 
minute. 

"  She  asked  for  Bar  net,  and  I  said  he  was 
anxious  and  out  watchin'  for  the  doctor,  now 
the  snow'd  stopped.  'I  wish  I  could  see 
Ezra,'  says  she.  4 1  'm  all  done  with  the 
lane  now,  and  I  'd  keep  the  peace  if  I  was 
goin'  to  live.'  Her  voice  got  weak,  and  I 
did  n't  know  but  she  was  worse  off  than  I 
s'posed.  I  was  scared  for  a  minute,  and 
then  I  took  a  grain  o'  hope.  I  'd  watched 
by  too  many  dyin'-beds  not  to  know  the  dif 
ference. 

" '  Don't  ye  let  Barnet  git  old  Nevins  to 
make  my  coffin,  will  ye,  Mis'  Powder  ? '  says 
she  once. 

" '  He 's  called  a  good  workman,  ain't 
he  ?  '  says  I,  sooth  in'  as  I  could.  When  it 
come  to  her  givin'  funeral  orders,  'twas 
more  'n  I  could  do  to  hold  in. 

"  4 1  ain't  goin'  snappin'  through  torment 
in  a  hemlock  coffin,  to  please  that  old 
cheat !  '  says  she,  same  's  if  she  was  well,  an' 
ris'  right  up  in  bed  ;  and  then  her  bruises 
pained  her  an'  she  dropped  back  on  the  pil 
low. 


162  LAW  LANE. 

44  '  Oh,  I  'm  a-goin'  now  ! '  says  she. 
4 1  've  been  an  awful  hard  woman.  T  was 
I  put  Barnet  up  to  the  worst  on 't.  I  'm 
willin'  Ezra  should  marry  Ruthy  Crosby ; 
she  's  a  nice,  pooty  gal,  and  I  never  owned 
it  till  now  I  'm  on  my  dyin'-bed  —  Oh,  I  'm 
a-goin',  I  'm  a-goin'  !  —  Ezra  can  marry  her, 
and  the  two  farms  together  '11  make  the  best 
farm  in  town.  Barnet  ain't  got  no  fight 
left ;  he  's  like  an  old  sheep  since  we  drove 
off  Ezra.'  And  then  she  'd  screech ;  you 
never  saw  no  such  a  fit  of  narves.  And  the 
end  was  I  had  to  send  to  Crosby's,  in  all  the 
snow,  for  them  to  come  over. 

44  An'  Barnet  was  got  in  to  hold  her  hand 
and  hear  last  words  enough  to  make  a 
Fourth  o'  July  speech  ;  and  I  was  sent  out 
to  the  door  to  hurry  up  the  Crosbys,  and 
who  should  come  right  out  o'  the  dark  but 
Ezra.  I  declare,  when  I  see  him  you  could 
a-knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  But  I 
got  him  by  the  sleeve  —  4  You  hide  away  a 
spell,'  says  I,  4  till  I  set  the  little  lamp  in 
this  winder  ;  an'  don't  you  make  the  best  o' 
your  ma's  condition  ;  'pear  just  as  consarned 
about  her  as  you  can.  I  '11  let  ye  know 
why,  soon  's  we  can  talk '  —  and  I  shoved 
him  right  out  an'  shut  the  door. 


LAW  LANE.  163 

"  The  groans  was  goin'  on,  and  in  come 
Crosby  and  Ruth,  lookin'  scared  about  to 
death  themselves.  Neither  on  'em  had  ever 
been  in  that  house  before,  as  I  know  of. 
She  called  'em  into  the  bedroom  and  said 
she  'd  had  hard  feelin's  towards  them  and 
wanted  to  make  peace  before  she  died,  and 
both  on  'em  shook  hands  with  her. 

"  4  Don't  you  want  to  tell  Ruth  what  you 
said  to  me  about  her  and  Ezry?'  says  I, 
whisperin'  over  the  bed.  '  'Live  or  dead, 
you  know  't  is  right  and  best.' 

" 4  There  ain't  no  half  way  'bout  me,'  she 
says,  and  so  there  wa'n't.  '  Ruth,'  says  she, 
out  loud,  '  I  want  you  to  tell  pore  Ezra  that 
I  gave  ye  both  my  blessin','  and  I  made  two 
steps  acrost  that  kitchen  and  set  the  lamp  in 
the  window,  and  in  comes  Ezra  —  pore  boy, 
he  didn't  know  what  was  brewin',  and 
thought  his  mother  was  dyin'  certain  when 
he  saw  the  Crosbys  goin'  in. 

"  He  went  an'  stood  beside  the  bed,  an' 
his  father  clutched  right  holt  of  him.  Thinks 
I  to  myself,  if  you  make  as  edifyin'  an  end 
when  your  time  really  does  come,  you  may 
well  be  thankful,  Jane  Barnet ! 

"  They  was  all  a-weepin',  an'  I  was 
weepin'  myself,  if  you  '11  believe  it,  I  'd  got 


164  LA  W  LANE. 

a-goin'  so.  You  ought  to  seen  her  take  holt 
o'  Kuth's  hand  an'  Ezra's  an'  put  'em  to 
gether.  TJien  I  'd  got  all  I  wanted,  I  tell 
you.  An'  after  she  'd  screeched  two  or 
three  times  more  she  begun  to  git  tired  ;  the 
poor  old  creatur'  was  shook  up  dreadful, 
and  I  felt  for  her  consid'able,  though  you 
may  not  think  it ;  so  I  beckoned  'em  out 
into  the  kitchen  an'  went  in  an'  set  with  her 
alone.  She  dropped  off  into  a  good  easy 
sleep,  an'  I  told  the  folks  her  symptoms  was 
more  encouragin'. 

"  I  tell  you,  if  ever  I  took  handsome  care 
o'  any  sick  person  't  was  Jane  Barnet,  before 
she  got  about  again  ;  an'  Ruth  she  used  to 
come  over  an'  help  real  willin'.  She  got 
holt  of  her  ma'-in-law's  bunnit  one  after 
noon  an'  trimmed  it  up  real  tasty,  and  that 
pleased  Mis'  Barnet  about  to  death.  My 
conscience  pricked  me  some,  but  not  a  great 
sight.  I  'm  willin'  to  take  what  blame  come 
to  me  by  rights. 

"  The  doctor  come  postin'  along,  late  that 
night,  and  said  she  was  doin'  well,  owin'  to 
the  care  she  'd  had,  and  give  me  a  wink. 
And  she  's  alive  yet,"  Mrs.  Powder  always 
assured  her  friends,  triumphantly  —  "  and, 
what 's  more,  is  middlin'  peaceable  disposed. 


LAW  LANE.  165 

She  's  said  one  or  two  p'inted  things  to  me, 
though,  an'  I  should  n't  wonder,  come  to 
think  it  over,  if  she  mistrusted  me  just  the 
least  grain.  But,  dear  sakes !  they  never 
was  so  comfortable  in  their  lives  ;  an'  Ezra 
he  got  a  first-rate  bargain  for  a  lot  o'  Cros 
by's  woodland  that  the  railroad  wanted,  and 
peace  is  kind  o'  set  in  amon'st  'em  up  in 
Law  Lane." 


V. 

When  Ezra  Barnet  waked  on  Christmas 
morning,  in  his  familiar,  dark  little  cham 
ber  under  the  lean-to  roof,  he  could  hardly 
believe  that  he  was  at  home  again,  and  that 
such  strange  things  had  happened.  There 
were  cheerful  voices  in  the  kitchen  below, 
and  he  dressed  hurriedly  and  went  down 
stairs. 

There  was  Mrs.  Powder,  cooking  the 
breakfast  with  lavish  generosity,  and  beam 
ing  with  good-nature.  Barnet,  the  father, 
was  smiling  and  looking  on  with  pleased  an 
ticipation  ;  the  sick  woman  was  comfortably 
bolstered  up  in  the  bedroom.  In  all  his  life 
the  son  had  never  felt  so  drawn  to  his 
mother  ;  there  was  a  new  look  in  her  eyes  as 


166  LAW  LANE. 

he  went  toward  her ;  she  had  lost  her  high 
color,  and  looked  at  him  pleadingly,  as  she 
never  had  done  before.  "  Ezry,  come  close 
here!"  said  she.  "I  believe  I'm  goin'  to 
git  about  ag'in,  after  all.  Mis'  Powder  says 
I  be ;  but  them  feelin's  I  had  slippin'  down 
the  mow,  yesterday,  was  twice  as  bad  as  the 
thump  I  struck  with.  I  may  never  be  the 
same  to  work,  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  fight  with 
folks  no  more,  sence  the  Lord  '11  let  me  live 
a  spell  longer.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  fight  with 
nobody,  no  matter  how  bad  I  want  to.  Now, 
you  go  an'  git  you  a  good  breakfast.  I 
ain't  eat  a  mouthful  since  breakfast  yester 
day,  and  you  can  bring  me  a  help  o'  any 
thing  Sister  Powder  favors  my  havin'." 

"  I  hope  't  will  last,"  muttered  Sister 
Powder  to  herself,  as  she  heaped  the  blue 
plate.  "  Wish  you  all  a  Merry  Christmas !  " 
she  said.  "  I  like  to  forgot  my  manners." 

It  was  Christmas  Day,  whether  anybody 
in  Law  Lane  remembered  it  or  not.  The 
sun  shone  bright  on  the  sparkling  snow,  the 
eaves  were  dropping,  and  the  snow-birds  and 
blue-jays  came  about  the  door.  The  wars  of 
Law  Lane  were  ended. 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 


Miss  PECK  had  spent  a  lonely  day  in  her 
old  farm-house,  high  on  a  long  Vermont 
hillside  that  sloped  toward  the  west.  She 
was  able  for  an  hour  at  noon  to  overlook  the 
fog  in  the  valley  below,  and  pitied  the  peo 
ple  in  the  village  whose  location  she  could 
distinguish  only  by  means  of  the  church 
steeple  which  pricked  through  the  gray  mist, 
like  a  buoy  set  over  a  dangerous  reef. 
During  this  brief  time,  when  the  sun  was 
apparently  shining  for  her  benefit  alone,  she 
reflected  proudly  upon  the  advantage  of  liv 
ing  on  high  land,  but  in  the  early  afternoon, 
when  the  fog  began  to  rise  slowly,  and  at 
last  shut  her  in,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the 
world,  she  was  conscious  of  uncommon  de 
pression  of  spirits. 

"  I  might  as  well  face  it  now  as  any 
time,"  she  said  aloud,  as  she  lighted  her 
clean  kerosene  lamp  and  put  it  on  the  table. 
"  Eliza  Peck !  just  set  down  and  make  it 


168  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

blazing  clear  how  things  stand  with  yon,  and 
what  you  're  going  to  do  in  regard  to  'em  ! 
'T  ain't  no  use  matching  your  feelin's  to  the 
weather,  without  you  've  got  reason  for  it." 
And  she  twitched  the  short  curtains  across 
the  windows  so  that  their  brass  rings 
squeaked  on  the  wires,  opened  the  door  for 
the  impatient  cat  that  was  mewing  outside, 
and  then  seated  herself  in  the  old  rocking- 
chair  at  the  table  end. 

It  is  quite  a  mistake  to  believe  that  peo 
ple  who  live  by  themselves  find  every  day  a 
lonely  one.  Miss  Peck  and  many  other  soli 
tary  persons  could  assure  us  that  it  is  very 
seldom  that  they  feel  their  lack  of  compan 
ionship.  As  the  habit  of  living  alone  grows 
more  fixed,  it  becomes  confusing  to  have 
other  people  about,  and  seems  more  or  less 
bewildering  to  be  interfered  with  by  other 
people's  plans  and  suggestions.  Only  once 
in  a  while  does  the  feeling  of  solitariness  be 
come  burdensome,  or  a  creeping  dread  and 
sense  of  defenselessness  assail  one's  comfort. 
But  when  Miss  Peck  was  aware  of  the  ap 
proach  of  such  a  mood  she  feared  it,  and  was 
prepared  to  fight  it  with  her  best  weapon  of 
common-sense. 

She  was  much  given  to  talking  aloud,  as 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  169 

many  solitary  persons  are  ;  not  merely  talk 
ing  to  herself  in  the  usual  half-conscious 
way,  but  making  her  weaker  self  listen  to 
severe  comment  and  pointed  instruction. 
Miss  Peck  the  less  was  frequently  brought 
to  trial  in  this  way  by  Miss  Peck  the  greater, 
and  when  it  was  once  announced  that  justice 
must  be  done,  no  amount  of  quailing  or  ex 
cuse  averted  the  process  of  definite  convic 
tion. 

This  evening  she  turned  the  light  up  to 
its  full  brightness,  reached  for  her  kiiitting- 
work,  lifted  it  high  above  her  lap  for  a  mo 
ment,  as  her  favorite  cat  jumped  up  to  its 
evening  quarters  ;  then  she  began  to  rock 
to  and  fro  with  regularity  and  decision. 
"  'T  is  all  nonsense,"  she  said,  as  if  she  were 
addressing  some  one  greatly  her  inferior  — 
"  't  is  all  nonsense  for  you  to  go  on  this  way, 
Elizy  Peck  !  you  're  better  off  than  you  've 
been  this  six  year,  if  you  only  had  sense  to 
feel  so." 

There  was  no  audible  reply,  and  the 
speaker  evidently  mistook  the  silence  for  un 
convinced  stubbornness. 

"  If  ever  there  was  a  woman  who  was  de 
termined  to  live  by  other  folks'  wits,  and  to 
eat  other  folks'  dinners,  't  was  and  is  your 


170  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

lamented  brother's  widder,  Harri't  Peck  — 
Harri't  White  that  was.  She  's  claimed  the 
town's  compassion  till  it  's  good  as  run  dry, 
and  she  's  thought  that  you,  Elizy  Peck,  a 
hard-workin'  and  self-supportin'  woman,  was 
made  for  nothin'  but  her  use  and  comfort. 
Ever  since  your  father  died  and  you  've  been 
left  alone  you  've  had  her  for  a  clog  to  your 
upward  way.  Six  years  you  've  been  at  her 
beck  an'  call,  and  now  that  a  respectable 
man,  able  an'  willing  to  do  for  her,  has  been 
an'  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  shouldered  her 
and  all  her  whims,  and  promised  to  do  for 
the  children  as  if  they  was  his  own,  you  've 
been  grumpin'  all  day,  an'  /  'd  like  to  know 
what  there  is  to  grump  about !  " 

There  was  a  lack  of  response  even  to  this 
appeal  to  reason,  and  the  knitting-needles 
clicked  in  dangerous  nearness  to  the  old 
cat's  ears,  so  that  they  twitched  now  and 
then,  and  one  soft  paw  unexpectedly  re 
vealed  its  white  curving  claws. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Peck,  presently,  in  a 
more  lenient  tone,  "  I  s'pose  't  is  the  chil 
dren  you  're  thinking  of  most.  I  declare  I 
should  like  to  see  that  Tom's  little  red  head, 
and  feel  it  warm  with  my  two  hands  this 
minute  !  There  's  always  somethin'  hopeful 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  171 

in  havin'  to  do  with  children,  'less  they  come 
of  too  bad  a  stock.  Grown  folks  —  well, 
you  can  make  out  to  grin  an'  bear  'em  if 
you  must ;  but  like  's  not  young  ones  '11  turn 
out  to  be  somebody,  and  what  you  do  for 
'em  may  count  towards  it.  There 's  that 
Tom,  he  looks  just  as  his  father  used  to,  and 
there  ain't  a  day  he  won't  say  somethin'  real 
pleasant,  and  never  sees  the  difference  be 
twixt  you  an'  somebody  handsome.  I  ex 
pect  they  '11  spile  him  —  you  don't  know 
what  kind  o'  young  ones  they  '11  let  him  play 
with,  nor  how  they  '11  let  him  murder  the 
king's  English,  and  never  think  o'  boxin' 
his  ears.  Them  big  factory  towns  is  all  for 
eatin'  and  clothes.  I  'm  glad  you  was  raised 
in  a  good  old  academy  town,  if  'twas  the 
Lord's  will  to  plant  you  in  the  far  outskirts. 
Land,  how  Harri't  did  smirk  at  that  man  ! 
I  will  say  she  looked  pretty  —  't  is  hard 
work  and  worry  makes  folks  plain  like  me  — 
I  believe  she  's  fared  better  to  be  left  a  wid- 
der  with  three  child'n,  and  everybody  saying 
how  hard  it  was,  an'  takin'  holt,  than  she 
would  if  brother  had  lived  and  she  'd  had  to 
stir  herself  to  keep  house  and  do  for  him. 
You  've  been  the  real  widder  that  Tom  left 
—  you  Ve  mourned  him,  and  had  your  way 


172  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

to  go  alone —  not  she!  The  colonel's  lady," 
repeated  Miss  Peck,  scornfully  —  "  that 's 
what  sp'ilt  her.  She  never  could  come  down 
to  common  things,  Mis'  Colonel  Peck! 
Well,  she  may  have  noble  means  now,  but 
she 's  got  to  be  spoke  of  as  Mis'  Noah  Pig- 
ley  all  the  rest  of  her  days.  Not  that  I  'in 
goin'  to  fling  at  any  man's  accident  of 
name,"  said  the  just  Eliza,  in  an  apologetic 
tone.  "  I  did  want  to  adopt  little  Tom, 
but  't  was  to  be  expected  he  'd  object  —  a 
boy's  goin'  to  be  useful  in  his  business,  and 
poor  Tommy  's  the  likeliest.  I  would  have 
'dopted  him  out  an'  out,  and  he  shall  have 
the  old  farm  anyway.  But  oh  dear  me,  he  's 
all  spoilt  for  farming  now,  is  little  Tom,  un 
less  I  can  make  sure  of  him  now  and  then 
for  a  good  long  visit  in  summer  time. 

"Summer  an'  winter;  I  s'pose  you're 
likely  to  live  a  great  many  years,  Elizy," 
sighed  the  good  woman.  "  All  sole  alone, 
too  !  There,  I  've  landed  right  at  the  start- 
in'  point,"  —  and  the  kitchen  was  very  still 
while  some  dropped  stitches  in  a  belated 
stocking  for  the  favorite  nephew  were  ob 
scured  by  a  mist  of  tears  like  the  fog  out 
side.  There  was  no  more  talking  aloud,  for 
Miss  Peck  fell  into  a  revery  about  old  days 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  173 

and  the  only  brother  who  had  left  his  little 
household  in  her  care  and  marched  to  the 
war  whence  for  him  there  was  to  be  no  re 
turn.  She  had  remembered  very  often,  with 
a  great  sense  of  comfort,  a  message  in  one 
of  his  very  last  letters.  "Tell  Eliza  that 
she 's  more  likely  to  be  promoted  than  I 
am,"  he  said  (when  he  had  just  got  his  step 
of  Major)  ;  "  she  's  my  superior  officer,  how 
ever  high  I  get,  and  now  I  've  heard  what 
luck  she  's  had  with  the  haying,  I  appoint 
her  Brigadier-General  for  gallantry  in  the 
field."  How  poor  Tom's  jokes  had  kept  their 
courage  up  even  when  they  were  most  anx 
ious  !  Yes,  she  had  made  many  sacrifices  of 
personal  gain,  as  every  good  soldier  must. 
She  had  meant  to  be  a  school-teacher.  She 
had  the  gift  for  it,  and  had  studied  hard  in 
her  girlhood.  One  thing  after  another  had 
kept  her  at  home,  and  now  she  must  stay 
here  —  her  ambitions  were  at  an  end.  She 
would  do  what  good  she  could  among  her 
neighbors,  and  stand  in  her  lot  and  place. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  found  to  think 
soberly  about  her  life,  for  her  sister-in-law 
and  the  children  had  gone  to  their  new  home 
within  a  few  days,  and  since  then  she  had 
stifled  all  power  of  proper  reflection  by  hard 


174  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

work  at  setting  the  house  in  order  and  get 
ting  in  her  winter  supplies.  "  Thank  Heaven 
the  house  and  place  belong  to  me,"  she  said 
in  a  decisive  tone.  "  'T  was  wise  o'  father 
to  leave  it  so  —  and  let  her  have  the  money. 
She'd  left  me  no  peace  till  I  moved  off  if 
I  'd  only  been  half  -  owner ;  she  's  always 
meant  to  get  to  a  larger  place  —  but  what 
I  want  is  real  promotion." 

The  Peck  farm-house  was  not  only  on  a 
by-road  that  wandered  among  the  slopes  of 
the  hills,  but  it  was  at  the  end  of  a  long  lane 
of  its  own.  There  was  rarely  any  sound  at 
night  except  from  the  winds  of  heaven  or  the 
soughing  of  the  neighboring  pine-trees.  By 
day,  there  was  a  beautiful  inspiriting  outlook 
over  the  wide  country  from  the  farm-house 
windows,  but  on  such  a  night  as  this  the 
darkness  made  an  impenetrable  wall.  Miss 
Peck  was  not  afraid  of  it ;  on  the  contrary, 
she  had  a  sense  of  security  in  being  shut 
safe  into  the  very  heart  of  the  night.  By 
day  she  might  be  vexed  by  intruders,  by 
night  they  could  scarcely  find  her  —  her 
bright  light  could  not  be  seen  from  the  road. 
If  she  were  to  wither  away  in  the  old  gray 
house  like  an  implanted  kernel  in  its  shell, 
she  would  at  least  wither  undisturbed.  Her 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  175 

sorrow  of  loneliness  was  not  the  fear  of  mo 
lestation.  She  was  fearless  enough  at  the 
thought  of  physical  dangers. 

The  evening  did  not  seem  so  long  as  she 
expected  —  a  glance  at  her  reliable  time 
keeper  told  her  at  last  that  it  was  already 
past  eight  o'clock,  and  her  eyes  began  to 
feel  heavy.  The  fire  was  low,  the  fog  was 
making  its  presence  felt  even  in  the  house, 
for  the  autumn  night  was  chilly,  and  Miss 
Peck  decided  that  when  she  came  to  the  end 
of  the  stitches  on  a  certain  needle  she  would 
go  to  bed.  To-morrow,  she  meant  to  cut  her 
apples  for  drying,  a  duty  too  long  delayed. 
She  had  sent  away  some  of  her  best  fruit 
that  day  to  make  the  annual  barrel  of  cider 
with  which  she  provided  herself,  more  from 
habit  than  from  real  need  of  either  the 
wholesome  beverage  or  its  resultant  vinegar. 
"  If  this  fog  lasts,  I  've  got  to  dry  my  ap 
ples  by  the  stove,"  she  thought,  doubtfully, 
and  was  conscious  of  a  desire  to  survey  the 
weather  from  the  outer  doorway  before  she 
slept.  How  she  missed  Harriet  and  the  chil 
dren  !  —  though  they  had  been  living  with  her 
only  for  a  short  time  before  the  wedding,  and 
since  the  half- house  they  had  occupied  in  the 
village  had  Been  let.  The  thought  of  bright- 


176  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

eyed,  red-headed  little  Tom  still  brought  the 
warm  tears  very  near  to  falling.  He  had  cried 
bitterly  when  he  went  away.  So  had  his 
mother  —  at  least,  she  held  up  her  pocket- 
handkerchief.  Miss  Peck  never  had  believed 
in  Harriet's  tears. 

Out  of  the  silence  of  the  great  hillslope 
came  the  dull  sound  of  a  voice,  and  as  Miss 
Peck  sprang  from  her  chair  to  the  window, 
dropping  the  sleeping  cat  in  a  solid  mass  on 
the  floor,  she  recognized  the  noise  of  a  car 
riage.  Her  heart  was  beating  provokingly  ; 
she  was  tired  by  the  excitement  of  the  last 
few  days.  She  did  not  remember  this,  but 
\vas  conscious  of  being  startled  in  an  unusual 
way.  It  must  be  some  strange  crisis  in  her 
life ;  she  turned  and  looked  about  the  famil 
iar  kitchen  as  if  it  were  going  to  be  alto 
gether  swept  away.  "  Now,  you  need  n't  be 
afraid  that  Pigley's  com  in'  to  bring  her 
back,  Elizy  Peck  !  "  she  assured  herself  with 
grim  humor  in  that  minute's  apprehension 
of  disaster. 

A  man  outside  spoke  sternly  to  his  horse. 
Eliza  stepped  quickly  to  the  door  and  opened 
it  wide.  She  was  not  afraid  of  the  messen 
ger,  only  of  the  message. 

"  Hold  the  light  so  's  I  can  see  to  tie  this 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  177 

colt,"  said  a  familiar  voice  ;  u  it 's  as  dark 
as  a  pocket,  'Liza.  I  '11  be  right  in.  You 
must  put  on  a  good  warm  shawl ;  't  is  as 
bad  as  rain,  this  fog  is.  The  minister  wants 
you  to  come  down  to  his  house  ;  he  's  at  his 
wits'  end,  and  there  was  nobody  we  could 
think  of  that 's  free  an'  able  except  you.  His 
wife  's  gone,  died  at  quarter  to  six,  and  left 
a  mis'able  baby ;  but  the  doctor  expects 
't  will  live.  The  nurse  they  bargained  with  's 
failed  'em,  and  't  is  an  awful  state  o'  things 
as  you  ever  see.  Half  the  women  in  town 
are  there,  and  the  minister's  overcome  ;  he  s 
sort  of  fainted  away  two  or  three  times,  and 
they  don't  know  who  else  to  get,  till  the  doc 
tor  said  your  name,  and  he  groaned  right 
out  you  was  the  one.  'T  ain't  right  to  re 
fuse,  as  I  view  it.  Mis'  Spence  and  Mis' 
Corbell  is  going  to  watch  with  the  dead,  but 
there*  needs  a  head." 

Eliza  Peck  felt  for  once  as  if  she  lacked 
that  useful  possession  herself,  and  sat  down, 
with  amazing  appearance  of  calmness,  in  one 
of  her  splint-bottomed  chairs  to  collect  her 
thoughts.  The  messenger  was  a  good  deal 
excited  ;  so  was  she  ;  but  in  a  few  moments 
she  rose,  cutting  short  his  inconsequent  de 
scription  of  affairs  at  the  parsonage. 


178  Mf8S  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

"  You  just  put  out  the  fire  as  best  you 
can,"  she  said.  "  We  '11  talk  as  we  go 
along.  There  's  plenty  o'  ashes  there,  I  'm 
sure  ;  I  let  the  stove  cool  off  considerable, 
for  I  was  meanin'  to  go  to  bed  in  another 
five  minutes.  The  cat  '11  do  well  enough. 
I  '11  leave  her  plenty  for  to-morrow,  and 
she  's  got  a  place  where  she  can  crep  in  an' 
out  of  the  wood-shed.  I  '11  just  slip  on  an 
other  dress  and  put  the  nails  over  the  win 
dows,  an'  we  '11  be  right  off."  She  was  quite 
herself  again  now  ;  and,  true  to  her  promise, 
it  was  not  many  minutes  before  the  door 
was  locked,  the  house  left  in  darkness,  and 
Ezra  Weston  and  Miss  Peck  were  driving 

O 

comfortably  down  the  lane.  The  fog  had 
all  blown  away,  suddenly  the  stars  were  out, 
and  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  smell  of  the 
wet  bark  of  black  birches  and  cherry  and 
apple-trees  that  grew  by  the  fences.  The 
leaves  had  fallen  fast  through  the  day, 
weighted  by  the  dampness  until  their  feeble 
stems  could  keep  them  in  place  no  longer ; 
for  the  bright  colors  of  the  foliage  there  had 
come  at  night  sweet  odors  and  a  richness  of 
fragrance  in  the  soft  air. 

"  'T  is  an  unwholesome  streak  o'  weather, 
ain't  it  ?  "  asked  Ezra  Weston.  "  Feels  like 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  179 

a  dog-day  evenin'  now,  don't  it  ?  Come  this 
time  o'  year  we  want  bracin'  up." 

Miss  Peck  did  not  respond  ;  her  sympa 
thetic  heart  was  dwelling  on  the  thought 
that  she  was  going,  not  only  to  a  house  of 
mourning,  but  to  a  bereft  parsonage.  She 
would  not  have  felt  so  unequal  to  soothing 
the  sorrows  of  her  every-day  acquaintances, 
but  she  could  hardly  face  the  duty  of  consol 
ing  the  new  minister.  But  she  never  once 
wished  that  she  had  not  consented  so  easily 
to  respond  to  his  piteous  summons. 

There  was  a  strangely  festive  look  in  the 
village,  for  the  exciting  news  of  Mrs.  El- 
bury's  death  had  flown  from  house  to  house 
—  lights  were  bright  everywhere,  and  in  the 
parsonage  brightest  of  all.  It  looked  as  if 
the  hostess  were  receiving  her  friends,  and 
helping  them  to  make  merry,  instead  of  be 
ing  white  and  still,  and  done  with  this  world, 
while  the  busy  women  of  the  parish  were 
pulling  open  her  closets  and  bureau  drawers 
in  search  of  household  possessions.  Nobody 
stopped  to  sentimentalize  over  the  poor  soul's 
delicate  orderliness,  or  the  simple,  loving 
preparations  she  had  made  for  the  coming  of 
the  baby  which  fretfully  wailed  in  the  next 
room. 


180  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

"  Here  's  a  nice  black  silk  that  never  was 
touched  with  the  scissors  !  "  said  one  good 
dame,  as  if  a  kind  Providence  ought  to  have 
arranged  for  the  use  of  such  a  treasure  in 
setting  the  bounds  of  the  dead  woman's 
life. 

"  Does  seem  too  bad,  don't  it  ?  I  always 
heard  her  folks  was  well  off,"  replied  some 
body  in  a  loud  whisper;  "she  had  every 
thing  to  live  for."  There  was  great  eager 
ness  to  be  of  service  to  the  stricken  pastor, 
and  the  kind  neighbors  did  their  best  to 
prove  the  extent  of  their  sympathy.  One 
after  another  went  to  the  room  where  he 
was,  armed  with  various  excuses,  and  the 
story  of  his  sad  looks  and  distress  was  re 
peated  again  and  again  to  a  grieved  au 
dience. 

When  Miss  Peck  came  in  she  had  to  lis 
ten  to  a  full  description  of  the  day's  events, 
and  was  decorously  slow  in  assuming  her 
authority ;  but  at  last  the  house  was  nearly 
empty  again,  and  only  the  watchers  and  one 
patient  little  mother  of  many  children,  who 
held  this  motherless  child  in  loving  arms, 
were  left  with  Miss  Peck  in  the  parsonage. 
It  seemed  a  year  since  she  had  sat  in  her 
quiet  kitchen,  a  solitary  woman  whose  occu- 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  181 

pations  seemed  too  few  and  too  trivial  for 
her  eager  capacities  and  ambitions. 

The  autumn  days  went  by,  winter  set  in 
early,  and  Miss  Peck  was  still  mistress  of 
the  parsonage  housekeeping.  Her  own  cider 
was  brought  to  the  parsonage,  and  so  were 
the  potatoes  and  the  apples  ;  even  the  cat 
was  transferred  to  a  dull  village  existence, 
far  removed  in  every  way  from  her  happy 
hunting-grounds  among  the  snow-birds  and 
plump  squirrels.  The  minister's  pale  little 
baby  loved  Miss  Peck  and  submitted  to  her 
rule  already.  She  clung  fast  to  the  good 
woman  with  her  little  arms,  and  Miss  Peck, 
who  had  always  imagined  that  she  did  not 
care  for  infants,  found  herself  watching  the 
growth  of  this  spark  of  human  intelligence 
and  affection  with  intense  interest.  After 
all,  it  was  good  to  be  spared  the  long  winter 
at  the  farm ;  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  to 
dread  it,  but  she  saw  now  that  it  was  a  sea 
son  to  be  dreaded,  and  one  by  one  forgot  the 
duties  which  at  first  beckoned  her  home 
ward  and  seemed  so  unavoidable.  The 
farm-house  seemed  cold  and  empty  when 
she  paid  it  an  occasional  visit.  She  would 
not  have  believed  that  she  could  content  her- 


182  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

self  so  well' away  from  the  dear  old  home. 
If  she  could  have  had  her  favorite  little 
Tom  within  reach,  life  would  have  been  per 
fectly  happy. 

The  minister  proved  at  first  very  disap 
pointing  to  her  imaginary  estimate  and 
knowledge  of  him.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
her  sturdy  loyalty  to  him  as  pastor  and  em 
ployer,  she  could  sometimes  have  joined 
more  or  less  heartily  in  the  expressions  of 
the  disaffected  faction  which  forms  a  diffi 
cult  element  in  every  parish.  Her  sense  of 
humor  was  deeply  gratified  when  the  leader 
of  the  opposition  remarked  that  the  minis 
ter  was  beginning  to  take  notice  a  little,  and 
was  wearing  his  best  hat  every  day,  like 
every  other  widower  since  the  world  was 
made.  Miss  Peck's  shrewd  mind  had  al 
ready  made  sure  that  Mr.  Elbury's  loss  was 
not  so  great  as  she  had  at  first  sympatheti 
cally  believed  ;  she  knew  that  his  romantic, 
ease-loving,  self-absorbed,  and  self-admiring 
nature  had  been  curbed  and  held  in  check 
by  the  literal,  prosaic,  faithful-in-little-things 
disposition  of  his  dead  wife.  She  was  self- 
denying,  he  was  self-indulgent ;  she  was  duti 
ful,  while  he  was  given  to  indolence  —  and 
the  unfounded  plea  of  ill-health  made  his 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  183 

only  excuse.  Miss  Peck  soon  fell  into  the 
way  of  putting  her  shoulder  to  the  wheel, 
and  unobtrusively,  even  secretly,  led  the  af 
fairs  of  the  parish.  She  never  was  deaf  to 
the  explanation  of  the  wearing  effect  of 
brain-work,  but  accepted  the  weakness  as 
well  as  the  power  of  the  ministerial  charac 
ter  ;  and  nobody  listened  more  respectfully 
to  his  somewhat  flowery  and  inconsequent 
discourses  on  Sunday  than  Miss  Peck.  The 
first  Sunday  they  went  to  church  together 
Eliza  slipped  into  her  own  pew,  half-way  up 
the  side  aisle,  and  thought  well  of  herself 
for  her  prompt  decision  afterward,  though 
she  regretted  the  act  for  a  moment  as  she 
saw  the  minister  stop  to  let  her  into  the 
empty  pew  of  the  parsonage.  He  had  been 
sure  she  was  just  behind  him,  and  gained 
much  sympathy  from  the  congregation  as  he 
sighed  and  went  his  lonely  way  up  the  pul 
pit-stairs.  Even  Mrs.  Corbell,  who  had 
been  averse  to  settling  the  Rev.  Mr.  Elbury, 
was  moved  by  this  incident,  but  directly  af 
terward  whispered  to  her  next  neighbor  that 
"  Lizy  Peck  would  be  sitting  there  before 
the  year  was  out  if  she  had  the  business- 
head  they  had  all  given  her  credit  for." 
It  gives  rise  to  melancholy  reflections 


184  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

when  one  sees  how  quickly  those  who  have 
suffered  most  cruel  and  disturbing  bereave 
ments  learn  to  go  their  way  alone.  The 
great  plan  of  our  lives  is  never  really  broken 
nor  suffers  accidents.  However  stunning  the 
shock,  one  can  almost  always  understand 
gratefully  that  it  was  best  for  the  vanished 
friend  to  vanish  just  when  he  did ;  that  this 
world  held  no  more  duties  or  satisfactions  for 
him  ;  that  his  earthly  life  was  in  fact  done 
and  ended.  Our  relations  with  him  must  be 
lifted  to  a  new  plane.  Miss  Peck  thought 
often  of  the  minister's  loss,  and  always  with 
tender  sympathy,  yet  she  could  not  help  see 
ing  that  he  was  far  from  being  unresigned 
or  miserable  in  his  grief.  She  was  ready  to 
overlook  the  fact  that  he  depended  upon  his 
calling  rather  than  upon  his  own  character 
and  efforts.  The  only  way  in  which  she 
made  herself  uncongenial  to  the  minister 
was  by  persistent  suggestions  that  he  should 
take  more  exercise  and  "  stir  about  out-doors 
a  little."  Once,  when  she  had  gone  so  far  as 
to  briskly  inform  him  that  he  was  getting 
logy,  Mr.  Elbury  showed  entire  displeasure  ; 
and  a  little  later,  in  the  privacy  of  the  kitchen, 
she  voiced  the  opinion  that  Elizy  Peck  knew 
very  well  that  she  never  did  think  ministers 


MISS  PACK'S  PROMOTION.  185 

were  angels  —  only  human  beings,  like  her 
self,  in  great  danger  of  being  made  fools  of. 
But  the  two  good  friends  made  up  their 
little  quarrel  at  supper-time. 

"I  have  been  looking  up  the  derivation 
of  that  severe  word  you  applied  to  me  this 
noon,"  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Elbury,  pleas 
antly.  "  It  is  a  localism  ;  but  it  comes  from 
the  Dutch  word  log,  which  means  heavy  or 
unwieldy." 

These  words  were  pronounced  plaintively, 
with  evident  consciousness  that  they  hardly 
applied  to  his  somewhat  lank  figure  ;  and 
Miss  Peck  felt  confused  and  rebuked,  and 
went  on  pouring  tea  until  both  cup  and  sau 
cer  were  full,  and  she  scalded  the  end  of  her 
thumb.  She  was  very  weak  in  the  hands 
of  such  a  scholar  as  this,  but  later  she  had 
a  reassuring  sense  of  not  having  applied 
the  epithet  unjustly.  With  a  feminine  rev 
erence  for  his  profession,  and  for  his  attain 
ments,  she  had  a  keen  sense  of  his  human 
fallibility ;  and  neither  his  grief,  nor  his 
ecclesiastical  halo,  nor  his  considerate  idea 
of  his  own  value,  could  blind  her  sharp  eyes 
to  certain  shortcomings.  She  forgave  them 
readily,  but  she  knew  them  all  by  sight  and 
name. 


186  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

If  there  were  any  gift  of  Mr.  Elbury's 
which  could  be  sincerely  called  perfectly 
delightful  by  many  people,  it  was  his  voice. 
When  he  was  in  a  hurry,  and  gave  hasty  di 
rections  to  his  housekeeper  about  some  mis 
laid  possession,  or  called  her  down-stairs  to 
stop  the  baby's  vexatious  crying,  the  tones 
were  entirely  different  from  those  best 
known  to  the  parish.  Nature  had  gifted 
him  with  a  power  of  carrying  his  voice  into 
the  depths  of  his  sympathetic  being  and  re 
covering  it  again  gallantly.  He  had  been 
considered  the  superior,  in  some  respects,  of 
that  teacher  of  elocution  who  led  the  stu 
dents  of  the  theological  seminary  toward 
the  glorious  paths  of  oratory.  There  was  a 
mellow  middle-tone,  most  suggestive  of  ten 
der  feeling  ;  but  though  it  sounded  sweet  to 
other  feminine  ears,  Miss  Peck  was  always 
annoyed  by  it  and  impatient  of  a  certain  ar 
tificial  quality  in  its  cadences.  To  hear  Mr. 
Elbury  talk  to  his  child  in  this  tone,  and  ad 
dress  her  as  "  my  motherless  babe,"  however 
affecting  to  other  ears,  was  always  unpleas 
ant  to  Miss  Peck.  But  she  thought  very 
well  of  his  preaching ;  and  the  more  he  let 
all  the  decisions  and  responsibilities  of 
every-day  life  fall  to  her  share,  the  more  she 


MISS  P£CK'S  PROMOTION.  187 

enjoyed  life  and  told  her  friends  that  Mr. 
Elbury  was  a  most  amiable  man  to  live  with. 
And  when  spring  was  come  the  hillside  farm 
was  let  on  shares  to  one  of  Miss  Peck's 
neighbors  whom  she  could  entirely  trust. 
It  was  not  the  best  of  bargains  for  its  owner, 
who  had  the  reputation  of  being  an  excellent 
farmer,  and  the  agreement  cost  her  many 
sighs  and  not  a  little  wakefulness.  She  felt 
too  much  shut  in  by  this  village  life ;  but 
the  minister  pleaded  his  hapless  lot,  the  lit 
tle  child  was  even  more  appealing  in  her 
babyhood,  and  so  the  long  visit  from  little 
Tom  and  his  sisters,  the  familiar  garden, 
the  three  beehives,  and  the  glory  of  the  sun 
sets  in  the  great,  unbroken,  western  sky 
were  all  given  up  together  for  that  year. 

It  was  not  so  hard  as  it  might  have  been. 
There  was  one  most  rewarding  condition  of 
life  —  the  feast  of  books,  which  was  new  and 
bewilderingly  delightful  to  the  minister's 
housekeeper.  She  had  made  the  most  of 
the  few  well-chosen  volumes  of  the  farm 
house,  but  she  never  had  known  the  joy  of 
having  more  books  than  she  could  read,  or 
their  exquisite  power  of  temptation,  the  de 
light  of  their  friendly  company.  She  was 
oftenest  the  student,  the  brain-wearied  mem- 


188  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

ber,  of  the  parsonage-family,  but  she  never 
made  it  an  excuse,  or  really  recognized  the 
new  stimulus  either.  Life  had  never  seemed 
so  full  to  her  ;  she  was  working  with  both 
hands  earnestly,  and  no  half-heartedness. 
She  was  filled  with  reverence  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  minister's  books  ;  to  her  his  call 
ing,  his  character,  and  his  influence  were  all 
made  positive  and  respectable  by  this  foun 
dation  of  learning  on  his  library-shelves.  He 
was  to  her  a  man  of  letters,  a  critic,  and  a 
philosopher,  besides  being  an  experienced 
theologian  from  the  very  nature  of  his  pro 
fession.  Indeed,  he  had  an  honest  liking 
for  books,  and  was  fond  of  reading  aloud  or 
being  read  to ;  and  many  an  evening  went 
joyfully  by  in  the  presence  of  the  great 
English  writers,  whose  best  thoughts  were 
rolled  out  in  Mr.  Elbury's  best  tones,  and 
Miss  Peck  listened  with  delight,  and  cast 
many  an  affectionate  glance  at  the  sleeping 
child  in  the  cradle  at  her  feet,  filled  with 
gratitude  as  she  was  for  all  her  privileges. 

Mr.  Elbury  was  most  generous  in  his 
appreciation  of  Miss  Peck's  devotion,  and 
never  hesitated  to  give  expression  to  sincere 
praise  of  her  uncommon  power  of  mind. 
He  was  led  into  paths  of  literature,  other- 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  189 

wise  untrod,  by  her  delight ;  and  sometimes, 
to  rest  his  brain  and  make  him  ready  for  a 
good  night's  sleep,  he  asked  his  companion 
to  read  him  a  clever  story.  It  was  all  a  new 
world  to  the  good  woman  whose  schooling 
and  reading  had  been  sound,  but  restricted  ; 
and  if  ever  a  mind  waked  up  with  joy  to  its 
possession  of  the  world  of  books,  it  was  hers. 
She  became  ambitious  for  the  increase  of 
her  own  little  library  ;  and  it  was  in  reply 
to  her  outspoken  plan  for  larger  crops  and 
more  money  from  the  farm  another  year, 
for  the  sake  of  bookbuying,  that  Mr.  Elbury 
once  said,  earnestly,  that  his  books  were 
hers  now.  This  careless  expression  was  the 
spark  which  lit  a  new  light  for  Miss  Peck's 
imagination.  For  the  first  time  a  thrill  of 
personal  interest  in  the  man  made  itself  felt, 
through  her  devoted  capacity  for  service  and 
appreciation.  He  had  ceased  to  be  simply 
himself  ;  he  stood  now  for  a  widened  life, 
a  suggestion  of  added  good  and  growth,  a 
larger  circle  of  human  interests ;  in  fact,  his 
existence  had  made  all  the  difference  be 
tween  her  limited  rural  home  and  that  con 
nection  with  the  great  world  which  even  the 
most  contracted  parsonage  is  sure  to  hold. 
And  that  very  night,  while  Mr.  Elbury  had 


190  MISS  PECK'S   PROMOTION. 

gone,  somewhat  ruefully  and  ill  -  prepared, 
to  his  Bible  class,  Miss  Peck's  conscience 
set  her  womanly  weakness  before  it  for  a 
famous  arraigning.  It  was  so  far  successful 
that  words  failed  the  defendant  completely, 
and  the  session  was  dissolved  in  tears.  For 
some  days  Miss  Peck  was  not  only  stern 
with  herself,  but  even  with  the  minister,  and 
was  entirely  devoted  to  her  domestic  affairs. 
The  very  next  Sunday  it  happened  that  Mr. 
Elbury  exchanged  pulpits  with  a  brother- 
clergyman  in  the  next  large  town,  a  thriving 
manufacturing  centre,  and  he  came  home 
afterward  in  the  best  of  spirits.  He  never 
had  seemed  so  appreciative  of  his  comfort 
able  home,  or  Miss  Peck's  motherly  desire 
to  shield  his  weak  nature  from  these  prac 
tical  cares  of  life  to  which  he  was  entirely  in 
adequate.  He  was  unusually  gay  and  amus 
ing,  and  described,  not  with  the  best  taste, 
the  efforts  of  two  of  his  unmarried  lady- 
parishioners  to  make  themselves  agreeable. 
He  had  met  them  on  the  short  journey,  and 
did  not  hesitate  to  speak  of  himself  lightly 
as  a  widower  ;  in  fact,  he  recognized  his  own 
popularity  and  attractions  in  a  way  that  was 
not  pleasing  to  Miss  Peck,  yet  she  was  used 
to  his  way  of  speaking  and  unaffectedly 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  191 

glad  to  have  him  at  home  again.  She  had 
been  much  disturbed  and  grieved  by  her 
own  thoughts  in  his  absence.  She  could  not 
be  sure  whether  she  was  wise  in  drifting  to 
ward  a  nearer  relation  to  the  minister.  She 
was  not  exactly  shocked  at  finding  herself 
interested  in  him,  but,  with  her  usual  sense 
of  propriety  and  justice,  she  insisted  upon 
taking  everybody's  view  of  the  question  be 
fore  the  weaker  Miss  Peck  was  accorded  a 
hearing.  She  was  enraged  with  herself 
for  feeling  abashed  and  liking  to  avoid  the 
direct  scrutiny  of  her  fellow -parishioners. 
Mrs.  Corbell  and  she  had  always  been  the 
best  of  friends,  but  for  the  first  time  Miss 
Peck  was  annoyed  by  such  freedom  of  com 
ment  and  opinion.  And  Sister  Corbell  had 
never  been  so  forward  about  spending  the 
afternoon  at  the  parsonage,  or  running  in 
for  half-hours  of  gossip  in  the  morning,  as 
in  these  latter  days.  At  last  she  began  to 
ask  the  coy  Eliza  about  her  plans  for  the 
wedding,  in  a  half -joking,  half -serious  tone 
which  was  hard  to  bear. 

"  You  're  a  sight  too  good  for  him,"  was 
the  usual  conclusion,  "  and  so  I  tell  every 
body.  The  whole  parish  has  got  it  settled 
for  you  ;  and  there  's  as  many  as  six  think 


192  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

hard  of  you,  because  you  've  given  'em  no 
chance,  bein'  right  here  on  the  spot." 

It  seemed  as  if  a  resistless  torrent  of  fate 
were  sweeping  our  independent  friend  to 
ward  the  brink  of  a  great  change.  She  in 
sisted  to  the  quailing  side  of  her  nature  that 
she  did  not  care  for  the  minister  himself, 
that  she  was  likely  to  age  much  sooner  than 
he,  with  his  round,  boyish  face  and  plump 
cheeks.  "  They  '11  be  takin'  you  for  his 
mother,  Lizy,  when  you  go  amongst  stran 
gers,  little  and  dried  up  as  you  're  gettin'  to 
be  a' ready;  you're  three  years  older  any 
way,  and  look  as  if  't  was  nine."  Yet  the 
capable,  clear-headed  woman  was  greatly 
enticed  by  the  high  position  and  require 
ments  of  mistress  of  the  parsonage.  She 
liked  the  new  excitement  and  authority,  and 
grew  more  and  more  happy  in  the  exercise 
of  powers  which  a  solitary  life  at  the  farm 
would  hardly  arouse  or  engage.  There  was 
a  vigorous  growth  of  independence  and  de 
termination  in  Miss  Peck's  character,  and 
she  had  not  lived  alone  so  many  years  for 
nothing.  But  there  was  no  outward  sign 
yet  of  capitulation.  She  was  firmly  con 
vinced  that  the  minister  could  not  get  on 
without  her,  and  that  she  would  rather  not 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  193 

get  on  without  him  and  the  pleasure  of  her 
new  activities.  If  possible,  she  grew  a  little 
more  self-contained  and  reserved  in  manner 
and  speech,  while  carefully  anticipating  his 
wants  and  putting  better  and  better  dinners 
on  the  parochial  table. 

As  for  Mr.  Elbury  himself,  he  became 
more  cheerful  every  day,  and  was  almost  de 
monstrative  in  his  affectionate  gratitude.  He 
spoke  always  as  if  they  were  one  in  their 
desire  to  interest  and  benefit  the  parish  ;  he 
had  fallen  into  a  pleasant,  home-like  habit 
of  saying  "  we  "  whenever  household  or  par 
ish  affairs  were  under  discussion.  Once, 
when  somebody  had  been  remarking  the  too- 
evident  efforts  of  one  of  her  sister-parish 
ioners  to  gain  Mr.  Elbury's  affection,  he 
had  laughed  leniently  ;  but  when  this  gos 
siping  caller  had  gone  away  the  minister 
said,  gently,  "  We  know  better,  don't  we, 
Miss  Peck  ?  "  and  Eliza  could  not  help  feel 
ing  that  his  tone  meant  a  great  deal.  Yet 
she  took  no  special  notice  of  him,  and  grew 
much  more  taciturn  than  was  natural.  Her 
heart  beat  warmly  under  her  prim  alpacca- 
dress  ;  she  already  looked  younger  and  a 
great  deal  happier  than  when  she  first  came 
to  live  at  the  parsonage.  Her  executive 


194  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

ability  was  made  glad  by  the  many  duties 
that  fell  upon  her,  and  those  who  knew  her 
and  Mr.  Elbury  best  thought  nothing  could 
be  wiser  than  their  impending-  marriage. 
Did  not  the  little  child  need  Miss  Peek's 
motherly  care  ?  did  not  the  helpless  minister 
need  the  assistance  of  a  clear-sighted  busi 
ness-woman  and  good  housekeeper  ?  did  not 
Eliza  herself  need  and  deserve  a  husband  ? 
But  even  with  increasing  certainty  she  still 
gave  no  outward  sign  of  their  secret  under 
standing.  It  was  likely  that  Mr.  Elbury 
thought  best  to  wait  a  year  after  his  wife's 
death,  and  when  he  spoke  right  out  was  the 
time  to  show  what  her  answer  would  be. 
But  somehow  the  thought  of  the  dear  old 
threadbare  farm  in  the  autumn  weather  was 
always  a  sorrowful  thought ;  and  on  the 
days  when  Mr.  Elbury  hired  a  horse  and 
wagon,  and  invited  her  and  the  baby  to 
accompany  him  on  a  series  of  parochial  vis 
itations,  she  could  not  bear  to  look  at  the 
home-fields  and  the  pasture-slopes.  She  was 
thankful  that  the  house  itself  was  not  in 
sight  from  the  main  road.  The  crops  that 
summer  had  been  unusually  good ;  some 
thing  called  her  thoughts  back  continually 
to  the  old  home,  and  accused  her  of  dis- 


MIS8  PECK'S  PROMOTION'.  195 

loyalty.  Yet  she  consoled  herself  by  think 
ing  it  was  very  natural  to  have  such  regrets, 
and  to  consider  the  importance  of  such  a 
step  at  her  sensible  time  of  life.  So  it  drew 
near  winter  again,  and  she  grew  more  and 
more  unrelenting  and  scornful  whenever  her 
acquaintances  suggested  the  idea  that  her 
wedding  ought  to  be  drawing  near. 

Mr.  Elbury  seemed  to  have  taken  a  new 
lease  of  youthful  hope  and  ardor.  He  was 
busy  in  the  parish  and  very  popular,  partic 
ularly  among  his  women-parishioners.  Miss 
Peck  urged  him  on  with  his  good  works,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  they  expressed  their  interest 
in  each  other  by  their  friendliness  to  the 
parish  in  general.  Mr.  Elbury  had  joined 
a  ministers'  club  in  the  large  town  already 
spoken  of,  and  spent  a  day  there  now  and 
then,  besides  his  regular  Monday-night  at 
tendance  on  the  club-meeting.  He  was  pre 
paring  a  series  of  sermons  on  the  history  of 
the  Jews,  and  was  glad  to  avail  himself  of  a 
good  free-library,  the  lack  of  which  he  fre 
quently  lamented  in  his  own  village.  Once 
he  said,  eagerly,  that  he  had  no  idea  of  end 
ing  his  days  here,  and  this  gave  Miss  Peck 
a  sharp  pang.  She  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  leaving  her  old  home,  and  the  tears  filled 


196  MJSS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

her  eyes.  When  she  had  reached  the  shelter 
of  the  kitchen,  she  retorted  to  the  too-easily 
ruffled  element  of  her  character  that  there 
was  no  need  of  crossing  that  bridge  till  she 
came  to  it ;  and,  after  an  appealing  glance 
at  the  academy-steeple  above  the  maple-trees, 
she  returned  to  the  study  to  finish  dusting. 
She  saw,  without  apprehension,  that  the 
minister  quickly  pushed  something  under 
the  leaves  of  his  blotting-paper  and  frowned 
a  little.  It  was  not  his  usual  time  for  writ 
ing  —  she  had  a  new  proof  of  her  admiring 
certainty  that  Mr.  Elbury  wrote  for  the 
papers  at  times  under  an  assumed  name. 

One  Monday  evening  he  had  not  returned 
from  the  ministers'  meeting  until  later  than 
usual,  and  she  began  to  be  slightly  anxious. 
The  baby  had  not  been  very  well  all  day,  and 
she  particularly  wished  to  have  an  errand 
done  before  night,  but  did  not  dare  to  leave 
the  child  alone,  while,  for  a  wonder,  nobody 
had  been  in.  Mr.  Elbury  had  shown  a  great 
deal  of  feeling  before  he  went  away  in  the 
morning,  and  as  she  was  admiringly  looking 
at  his  well-fitting  clothes  and  neat  clerical 
attire,  a  thrill  of  pride  and  affection  had 
made  her  eyes  shine  unwontedly.  She  was 
really  beginning  to  like  him  very  much. 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  197 

For  the  first  and  last  time  in  his  life  the 
minister  stepped  quickly  forward  and  kissed 
her  on  the  forehead.  "My  good,  kind 
friend  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  that  deep  tone 
which  the  whole  parish  loved  ;  then  he  hur 
ried  away.  Miss  Peck  felt  a  strange  dis 
may,  and  stood  by  the  breakfast-table  like  a 
statue.  She  even  touched  her  forehead  with 
trembling  fingers.  Somehow  she  inwardly 
rebelled,  but  kissing  meant  more  to  her  than 
to  some  people.  She  never  had  been  used 
to  it,  except  with  little  Tom  —  though  the 
last  brotherly  kiss  his  father  gave  her  before 
he  went  to  the  war  had  been  one  of  the 
treasures  of  her  memory.  All  that  day  she 
was  often  reminded  of  the  responsible  and 
darker  side,  the  inspected  and  criticised  side, 
of  the  high  position  of  minister's  wife.  It 
was  clearly  time  for  proper  rebuke  when 
evening  came ;  and  as  she  sat  by  the  light, 
mending  Mr.  Elbury's  stockings,  she  said 
over  and  over  again  that  she  had  walked 
into  this  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  and  if  the 
experience  of  forty  years  had  n't  put  any 
sense  into  her  it  was  too  late  to  help  it  now. 
Suddenly  she  heard  the  noise  of  wheels  in 
the  side  yard.  Could  anything  have  hap 
pened  to  Mr.  Elbury  ?  were  they  bringing 


198  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

him  home  hurt,  or  dead  even  ?  He  never 
drove  up  from  the  station  unless  it  were  bad 
weather.  She  rushed  to  the  door  with  a 
flaring  light,  and  was  bewildered  at  the  sight 
of  trunks  and,  most  of  all,  at  the  approach  of 
Mr.  Elbury,  for  he  wore  a  most  sentimental 
expression,  and  led  a  young  person  by  the 
hand. 

"Dear  friend,"  he  said,  in  that  mellow 
tone  of  his,  "  I  hope  you,  too,  will  love  my 
little  wife." 

Almost  any  other  woman  would  have 
dropped  the  kerosene  lamp  on  the  doorstep, 
but  not  Miss  Eliza  Peck.  Luckily  a  gust 
of  autumn  wind  blew  it  out,  and  the  bride 
had  to  fumble  her  way  into  her  new  home. 
Miss  Peck  quickly  procured  one  of  her  own 
crinkly  lamplighters,  and  bent  toward  the 
open  fire  to  kindle  a  new  light. 

"  You  've  taken  me  by  surprise,"  she  man 
aged  to  say,  in  her  usual  tone  of  voice, 
though  she  felt  herself  shaking  with  excite 
ment. 

At  that  moment  the  ailing  step-daughter 
gave  a  forlorn  little  wail  from  the  wide 
sofa,  where  she  had  been  put  to  sleep  with 
difficulty.  Miss  Peck's  kind  heart  felt  the 
pathos  of  the  situation  ;  she  lifted  the  little 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  199 

child  and  stilled  it,  then  she  held  out  a  kindly 
hand  to  the  minister's  new  wife,  while  Mr. 
Elbury  stood  beaming  by. 

"  I  wish  you  may  be  very  happy  here,  as 
I  have  been,"  said  the  good  woman,  ear 
nestly.  "  But  Mr.  Elbury,  you  ought  to  have 
let  me  know.  I  could  have  kept  a  secret " 
—  and  satisfaction  filled  Eliza  Peck's  heart 
that  she  never,  to  use  her  own  expression, 
had  made  a  fool  of  herself  before  the  First 
Parish.  She  had  kept  her  own  secret,  and 
in  this  earthquake  of  a  moment  was  clearly 
conscious  that  she  was  hero  enough  to  be 
have  as  if  there  had  never  been  any  secret 
to  keep.  And  indignation  with  the  Rever 
end  Mr.  Elbury,  who  had  so  imprudently 
kept  his  own  counsel,  threw  down  the  sham 
temple  of  Cupid  which  a  faithless  god  called 
Propinquity  had  succeeded  in  rearing. 

Miss  Peck  made  a  feast,  and  for  the  last 
time  played  the  part  of  hostess  at  the  min 
ister's  table.  She  had  remorselessly  in 
spected  the  conspicuous  bad  taste  of  the  new 
Mrs.  Elbury's  dress,  the  waving,  cheap- 
looking  feather  of  her  hat,  the  make-believe 
richness  of  her  clothes,  and  saw,  with  dire 
compassion,  how  unused  she  was  to  young 
children.  The  brave  Eliza  tried  to  make 


200  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

the  best  of  things  —  but  one  moment  she 
found  herself  thinking  how  uncomfortable 
Mr.  Elbury's  home  would  be  henceforth 
with  this  poor  reed  to  lean  upon,  a  townish, 
empty-faced,  tiresoinely  pretty  girl ;  the 
next  moment  she  pitied  the  girl  herself,  who 
would  have  the  hard  task  before  her  of  being 
the  wife  of  an  indolent  preacher  in  a  coun 
try  town.  Miss  Peck  had  generously  al 
lowed  her  farm  to  supplement  the  limited 
salary  of  the  First  Parish  ;  in  fact,  she  had 
been  a  silent  partner  in  the  parsonage 
establishment  rather  than  a  dependent. 
Would  the  First  Parish  laugh  at  her  now? 
It  was  a  stinging  thought;  but  she  honestly 
believed  that  the  minister  himself  would  be 
most  commiserated  when  the  parish  opinion 
had  found  time  to  simmer  down. 

The  next  day  our  heroine,  whose  face  was 
singularly  free  from  disappointment,  told 
the  minister  that  she  would  like  to  leave  at 
once,  for  she  was  belated  about  many  things, 
not  having  had  notice  in  season  of  his  change 
of  plan. 

"  I  Ve  been  telling  your  wife  all  about  the 
house  and  parish  interests  the  best  I  can, 
and  it'  s  likely  she  wants  to  take  everything 
into  her  own  hands  right  away,"  added  the 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  201 

uncommon  housekeeper,  with  a  spice  of 
malice ;  but  Mr.  Elbury  flushed,  and  looked 
down  at  the  short,  capable  Eliza  appealingly. 
He  knew  her  virtues  so  well  that  this  an 
nouncement  gave  him  a  crushing  blow. 

"Why,  I  thought  of  course  you  would 
continue  here  as  usual,"  he  said,  in  a  strange, 
harsh  voice  that  would  have  been  perfectly 
surprising  in  the  pulpit.  "  Mrs.  Elbury 
has  never  known  any  care.  We  count  upon 
your  remaining." 

Whereupon  Miss  Peck  looked  him  dis 
dainfully  in  the  face,  and,  for  a  moment, 
mistook  him  for  that  self  §o  often  reproved 
and  now  sunk  into  depths  of  ignominy. 

"  If  you  thought  that,  you  ought  to  have 
known  better,"  she  said.  "  You  can't  ex 
pect  a  woman  who  has  property  and  relations 
of  her  own  to  give  up  her  interests  for  yours 
altogether.  I  got  a  letter  this  morning  from 
my  brother's  boy,  little  Tom,  and  he  's  got 
leave  from  his  mother  and  her  husband  to 
come  and  stop  with  me  a  good  while  —  he 
says  all  winter.  He 's  been  sick,  and 
they  've  had  to  take  him  out  o'  school.  I 
never  supposed  that  such  stived-up  air  would 
agree  with  him,"  concluded  Miss  Peck,  tri 
umphantly.  She  was  full  of  joy  and  hope 


202  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

at  this  new  turn  of  affairs,  and  the  minister 
was  correspondingly  hopeless.  "  I  '11  take 
the  baby  home  for  a  while,  if  't  would  be 
a  convenience  for  you,"  she  added,  more 
leniently.  "  That  is,  after  I  get  my  house 
well  warmed,  and  there  's  something  in  it 
to  eat.  I  wish  you  could  have  spoken  to 
me  a  fortnight  ago  ;  but  I  saw  Joe  Farley 
to-day  —  that  boy  that  lived  with  me  quite 
a  while  — he  's  glad  to  come  back.  He  only 
engaged  to  stop  till  after  cider  time  where 
he  's  been  this  summer,  and  he  's  promised  to 
look  about  for  a  good  cow  for  me.  I  always 
thought  well  of  Joe." 

The  minister  turned  away  ruefully,  and 
Miss  Peck  went  about  her  work.  She 
meant  to  leave  the  house  in  the  best  of 
order ;  but  the  whole  congregation  came 
trooping  in  that  day  and  the  next,  and  she 
hardly  had  time  to  build  a  fire  in  her  own 
kitchen  before  Joe  Farley  followed  her  from 
the  station  with  the  beloved  little  Tom.  He 
looked  tall  and  thin  and  pale,  and  largely 
freckled  under  his  topknot  of  red  hair. 
Bless  his  heart !  how  his  lonely  aunt  hugged 
him  and  kissed  him,  and  how  thankful  he 
was  to  get  back  to  her,  though  she  never 
would  have  suspected  it  if  she  had  not  known 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  203 

him  so  well.  A  shy  boy-fashion  of  reserve 
and  stolidity  had  replaced  his  early  demon 
strations,  but  he  promptly  went  to  the  shelf 
of  books  to  find  the  familiar  old  "  Robinson 
Crusoe."  Miss  Peck's  heart  leaped  for  joy 
as  she  remembered  how  much  more  she  could 
teach  the  child  about  books.  She  felt  a 
great  wave  of  gratitude  fill  her  cheerful  soul 
as  she  remembered  the  pleasure  and  gain  of 
those  evenings  when  she  and  Mr.  Elbury 
had  read  together. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  eager  discussion 
in  the  village ;  and  much  amused  scrutiny  of 
Eliza's  countenance,  as  she  walked  up  the 
side  aisle  that  first  Sunday  after  the  min 
ister  was  married.  She  led  little  Tom  by  the 
hand,  but  he  opened  the  pew-door  and  ush 
ered  her  in  handsomely,  and  she  looked  smil 
ingly  at  her  neighbors  and  nodded  her  head 
sideways  at  the  boy  in  a  way  that  made  them 
suspect  that  she  was  much  more  in  love  with 
him,  freckles  and  all,  than  she  had  ever 
been  with  Mr.  Elbury.  A  few  minutes  later 
she  frowned  at  Tom  sternly  for  greeting  his 
old  acquaintances  over  the  pew-rail  in  a  way 
that  did  not  fit  the  day  or  place.  There 
was  no  chance  to  laugh  at  her  disappoint 
ment  ;  for  nobody  could  help  understanding 


204  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

that  her  experience  at  the  parsonage  had 
been  merely  incidental  in  her  life,  and  that 
she  had  returned  willingly  to  her  old  asso 
ciations.  The  dream  of  being  a  minister's 
wife  had  been  only  a  dream,  and  she  was 
surprised  to  find  herself  waking  from  it  with 
such  resignation  to  her  lot. 

"I'd  just  like  to  know  what  sort  of  a 
breakfast  they  had,"  she  said  to  herself,  as 
the  bride's  topknot  went  waving  and  bob 
bing  up  to  the  parsonage  pew.  "  If  ever 
there  was  a  man  who  was  fussy 'about  his 
cup  o'  coffee,  't  is  Reverend  Wilbur  Elbury ! 
There  now,  Elizy  Peck,  don't  you  wish 
't  was  you  a-setting  there  up  front  and  feel 
ing  the  eyes  of  the  whole  parish  sticking  in 
your  back  ?  You  could  have  had  him,  you 
know,  if  you  'd  set  right  about  it.  I  never 
did  think  you  had  proper  ideas  of  what  get- 
tin'  promoted  is ;  but  if  you  ain't  discovered 
a  new  world  for  yourself  like  C'lumbus,  I 
miss  my  guess.  If  you  'd  stayed  on  the  farm 
all  alone  last  year  you'd  had  no  thoughts 
but  hens  and  rutabagys,  and  as  't  is  you  Ve 
been  livin'  amon'st  books.  There  's  nothin' 
to  regret  if  you  did  just  miss  makin'  a  fool 
o'  yourself." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Elbury's  voice  gently 


MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION.  205 

sounded  from  the  pulpit,  and  Miss  Peck 
sprang  to  her  feet  with  the  agility  of  a  jack- 
in-the-box  —  she  had  forgotten  her  surround 
ings  in  the  vividness  of  her  revery.  She 
hardly  knew  what  the  minister  said  in  that 
first  prayer ;  for  many  reasons  this  was  an 
exciting  day. 

A  little  later  our  heroine  accepted  the  in 
vitation  of  her  second  cousin,  Mrs.  Corbell, 
to  spend  the  hour  or  two  between  morning 
and  afternoon  services.  They  had  agreed 
that  it  seemed  like  old  times,  and  took  pleas 
ure  in  renewing  this  custom  of  the  Sunday 
visit.  Little  Tom  was  commented  upon  as 
to  health  and  growth  and  freckles  and 
family  resemblance ;  and  when  he  strayed 
out-of-doors,  after  such  an  early  dinner  as 
only  a  growing  boy  can  make  vanish  with 
the  enchanter's  wand  of  his  appetite,  the 
two  women  indulged  in  a  good  talk. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  viewed  it,  this 
morning,"  began  Cousin  Corbell ;  "  but,  to 
my  eyes,  the  minister  looked  as  if  he  felt 
cheap  as  a  broom.  There,  I  never  was  one 
o'  his  worshipers,  you  well  know.  To  speak 
plain,  Elizy,  I  was  really  concerned  at  one 
time  for  fear  you  would  be  over-persuaded. 
I  never  said  one  word  to  warp  your  judg- 


206  MISS  PECK'S  PROMOTION. 

ment,   but  I   did   feel   as  if  't  would   be   a 
shame.     I "  — 

But  Miss  Peck  was  not  ready  yet  to  join 
the  opposition,  and  she  interrupted  at  once 
in  an  amiable  but  decided  tone.  "  We  '11 
let  by-gones  be  by-gones  ;  it 's  just  as  well, 
and  a  good  deal  better.  Mr.  Elbury  always 
treated  me  the  best  he  knew  how  ;  and  I 
knew  he  wa'n't  perfect,  but  't  was  full  as 
much  his  misfortune  as  his  fault.  I  declare 
I  don't  know  what  else  there  was  he  could 
ha'  done  if  he  had  n't  taken  to  preaching ; 
and  he  has  very  kind  feelings,  specially  if 
any  one 's  in  trouble.  Talk  of  4  leading 
about  captive  silly  women,'  there  are  some 
cases  where  we  've  got  to  turn  round  and  say 
it  right  the  other  way —  't  is  the  silly  women 
that  do  the  leadin'  themselves.  And  I  tell 
you,"  concluded  Miss  Peck,  with  apparent 
irrelevancy,  "  I  was  glad  last  night  to  have 
a  good  honest  look  at  a  yellow  sunset.  If 
ever  I  do  go  and  set  my  mind  on  a  minister, 
I  m  going  to  hunt  for  one  that 's  well  settled 
in  a  hill  parish.  I  used  to  feel  as  if  I  was 
shut  right  in,  there  at  the  parsonage  ;  it 's 
a  good  house  enough,  if  it  only  stood  where 
you  could  see  anything  out  of  the  windows. 
I  can't  carry  out  my  plans  o'  life  in  any 
such  situation." 


MISS  FECK'S  PROMOTION.  207 

"  I  expect  to  hear  that  you  've  blown  right 
off  the  top  o'  your  hill  some  o'  these  windy 
days,"  said  Mrs.  Corbell,  without  resent 
ment,  though  she  was  very  dependent,  her 
self,  upon  seeing  the  passing. 

The  church  bell  began  to  ring,  and  our 
friends  rose  to  put  on  their  bonnets  and  an 
swer  its  summons.  Miss  Peck's  practical 
mind  revolved  the  possibility  of  there  having 
been  a  decent  noonday  meal  at  the  parson 
age.  "  Maria  Corbell ! "  she  said,  with 
dramatic  intensity,  "  mark  what  I  ?m  goin' 
to  say  —  it  ain't  I  that 's  goin'  to  reap  the 
whirlwind ;  it 's  your  pastor,  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Elbury,  of  the  First  Parish !  " 


MISS   TEMPY'S   WATCHERS. 


THE  time  of  year  was  April ;  the  place  was 
a  small  farming  town  in  New  Hampshire, 
remote  from  any  railroad.  One  by  one  the 
lights  had  been  blown  out  in  the  scattered 
houses  near  Miss  Tempy  Dent's  ;  but  as  her 
neighbors  took  a  last  look  out-of-doors,  their 
eyes  turned  with  instinctive  curiosity  toward 
the  old  house,  where  a  lamp  burned  steadily. 
They  gave  a  little  sigh.  "  Poor  Miss  Tem 
py  ! "  said  more  than  one  bereft  acquaint 
ance  ;  for  the  good  woman  lay  dead  in  her 
north  chamber,  and  the  light  was  a  watch 
er's  light.  The  funeral  was  set  for  the  next 
day,  at  one  o'clock. 

The  watchers  were  two  of  the  oldest 
friends,  Mrs.  Crowe  and  Sarah  Ann  Binson. 
They  were  sitting  in  the  kitchen,  because  it 
seemed  less  awesome  than  the  unused  best 
room,  and  they  beguiled  the  long  hours  by 
steady  conversation.  One  would  think  that 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  209 

neither  topics  nor  opinions  would  hold  out, 
at  that  rate,  all  through  the  long  spring 
night ;  but  there  was  a  certain  degree  of  ex 
citement  just  then,  and  the  two  women  had 
risen  to  an  unusual  level  of  expressiveness 
and  confidence.  Each  had  already  told  the 
other  more  than  one  fact  that  she  had  deter 
mined  to  keep  secret ;  they  were  again  and 
again  tempted  into  statements  that  either 
would  have  found  impossible  by  daylight. 
Mrs.  Crowe  was  knitting  a  blue  yarn  stock 
ing  for  her  husband ;  the  foot  was  already 
so  long  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  have 
forgotten  to  narrow  it  at  the  proper  time. 
Mrs.  Crowe  knew  exactly  what  she  was 
about,  however ;  she  was  of  a  much  cooler 
disposition  than  Sister  Binson,  who  made 
futile  attempts  at  some  sewing,  only  to  drop 
her  work  into  her  lap  whenever  the  talk  was 
most  engaging. 

Their  faces  were  interesting,  —  of  the  dry, 
shrewd,  quick-witted  New  England  type, 
with  thin  hair  twisted  neatly  back  out  of  the 
way.  Mrs.  Crowe  could  look  vague  and  be 
nignant,  and  Miss  Binson  was,  to  quote  her 
neighbors,  a  little  too  sharp-set ;  but  the 
world  knew  that  she  had  need  to  be,  with  the 
load  she  must  carry  of  supporting  an  ineffi- 


210  MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

cient  widowed  sister  and  six  unpromising 
and  unwilling  nieces  and  nephews.  The  eld 
est  boy  was  at  last  placed  with  a  good  man 
to  learn  the  mason's  trade.  Sarah  Ann  Bin- 
son,  for  all  her  sharp,  anxious  aspect,  never 
defended  herself,  when  her  sister  whined 
and  fretted.  She  was  told  every  week  of  her 
life  that  the  poor  children  never  would  have 
had  to  lift  a  finger  if  their  father  had  lived, 
and  yet  she  had  kept  her  steadfast  way  with 
the  little  farm,  and  patiently  taught  the 
young  people  many  useful  things,  for  which, 
as  everybody  said,  they  would  live  to  thank 
her.  However  pleasureless  her  life  appeared 
to  outward  view,  it  was  brimful  of  pleasure 
to  herself. 

Mrs.  Crowe,  on  the  contrary,  was  well  to 
do,  her  husband  being  a  rich  farmer  and  an 
easy-going  man.  She  was  a  stingy  woman, 
but  for  all  that  she  looked  kindly ;  and  when 
she  gave  away  anything,  or  lifted  a  finger  to 
help  anybody,  it  was  thought  a  great  piece 
of  beneficence,  and  a  compliment,  indeed, 
which  the  recipient  accepted  with  twice  as 
much  gratitude  as  double  the  gift  that  came 
from  a  poorer  and  more  generous  acquaint 
ance.  Everybody  liked  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  Mrs.  Crowe.  Socially  she  stood  much 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHEKS.  211 

higher  than  Sarah  Ann  Binson.  They  were 
both  old  schoolmates  and  friends  of  Tem 
perance  Dent,  who  had  asked  them,  one  day, 
not  long  before  she  died,  if  they  would  not 
corne  together  and  look  after  the  house, 
and  manage  everything,  when  she  was  gone. 
She  may  have  had  some  hope  that  they  might 
become  closer  friends  in  this  period  of  inti 
mate  partnership,  and  that  the  richer  woman 
might  better  understand  the  burdens  of  the 
poorer.  They  had  not  kept  the  house  the 
night  before ;  they  were  too  weary  with  the 
care  of  their  old  friend,  whom  they  had  not 
left  until  all  was  over. 

There  was  a  brook  which  ran  down  the 
hillside  very  near  the  house,  and  the  sound 
of  it  was  much  louder  than  usual.  When 
there  was  silence  in  the  kitchen,  the  busy 
stream  had  a  strange  insistence  in  its  wild 
voice,  as  if  it  tried  to  make  the  watchers  un 
derstand  something  that  related  to  the  past. 

"  I  declare,  I  can't  begin  to  sorrow  for 
Tempy  yet.  I  am  so  glad  to  have  her  at 
rest,"  whispered  Mrs.  Crowe.  "  It  is  strange 
to  set  here  without  her,  but  I  can't  make  it 
clear  that  she  has  gone.  I  feel  as  if  she  had 
got  easy  and  dropped  off  to  sleep,  and  I  'm 
more  scared  about  waking  her  up  than  know 
ing  any  other  feeling." 


212  MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

"Yes," -said  Sarah  Ann,  "it's  just  like 
that,  ain't  it  ?  But  I  tell  you  we  are  goin' 
to  miss  her  worse  than  we  expect.  She  's 
helped  me  through  with  many  a  trial,  has 
Temperance.  I  ain't  the  only  one  who  says 
the  same,  neither." 

These  words  were  spoken  as  if  there  were 
a  third  person  listening;  somebody  beside 
Mrs.  Crowe.  The  watchers  could  not  rid 
their  minds  of  the  feeling  that  they  were 
being  watched  themselves.  The  spring  wind 
whistled  in  the  window  crack,  now  and  then, 
and  buffeted  the  little  house  in  a  gusty  way 
that  had  a  sort  of  companionable  effect. 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  it  was  a  very  still  night, 
and  the  watchers  spoke  in  a  half-whisper. 

"  She  was  the  freest-handed  woman  that 
ever  I  knew,"  said  Mrs.  Crowe,  decidedly. 
"  According  to  her  means,  she  gave  away 
more  than  anybody.  I  used  to  tell  her 
't  wa'n't  right.  I  used  really  to  be  afraid 
that  she  went  without  too  much,  for  we  have 
a  duty  to  ourselves." 

Sister  Binson  looked  up  in  a  half-amused, 
unconscious  way,  and  then  recollected  her 
self. 

Mrs.  Crowe  met  her  look  with  a  serious 
face.  "  It  ain't  so  easy  for  me  to  give  as  it 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  213 

is  for  some,"  she  said  simply,  but  with  an  ef 
fort  which  was  made  possible  only  by  the  oc 
casion.  "  I  should  like  to  say,  while  Ternpy 
is  laying  here  yet  in  her  own  house,  that  she 
has  been  a  constant  lesson  to  me.  Folks  are 
too  kind,  and  shame  me  with  thanks  for  what 
I  do.  I  ain't  such  a  generous  woman  as 
poor  Tempy  was,  for  all  she  had  nothin'  to 
do  with,  as  one  may  say." 

Sarah  Binson  was  much  moved  at  this 
confession,  and  was  even  pained  and  touched 
by  the  unexpected  humility.  "  You  have  a 
good  many  calls  on  you  "  —  she  began,  and 
then  left  her  kind  little  compliment  half  fin 
ished. 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  I  Ve  got  means  enough. 
My  disposition  's  more  of  a  cross  to  me  as 
I  grow  older,  and  I  made  up  my  rnind  this 
morning  that  Tempy's  example  should  be 
my  pattern  henceforth."  She  began  to  knit 
faster  than  ever. 

"  'T  ain  't  no  use  to  get  morbid  :  that 's 
what  Tempy  used  to  say  herself,"  said  Sarah 
Ann,  after  a  minute's  silence.  "  Ain't  it 
strange  to  say  '  used  to  say  '  ?  "  and  her  own 
voice  choked  a  little.  "  She  never  did  like 
to  hear  folks  git  goin'  about  themselves." 

"  'T  was  only  because  they  're  apt  to  do  it 


214  MISS  TEMPT'S  WATCHERS. 

so  as  other  folks  will  say  't  was  n't  so,  an' 
praise  'em  up,"  humbly  replied  Mrs.  Crowe, 
"  and  that  ain't  my  object.  There  wa'n't  a 
child  but  what  Tempy  set  herself  to  work 
to  see  what  she  could  do  to  please  it.  One 
time  my  brother's  folks  had  been  stopping 
here  in  the  summer,  from  Massachusetts. 
The  children  was  all  little,  and  they  broke 
up  a  sight  of  toys,  and  left  'em  when  they 
were  going  away.  Tempy  come  right  up 
after  they  rode  by,  to  see  if  she  could  n't 
help  me  set  the  house  to  rights,  and  she 
caught  me  just  as  I  was  going  to  fling  some 
of  the  clutter  into  the  stove.  I  was  kind  of 
tired  out,  starting  'em  off  in  season.  '  Oh, 
give  me  them ! '  says  she,  real  pleading ;  and 
she  wropped  'em  up  and  took  'em  home  with 
her  when  she  went,  and  she  mended  'em  up 
and  stuck  'em  together,  and  made  some  young 
one  or  other  happy  with  every  blessed  one. 
You'd  thought  I'd  done  her  the  biggest 
favor.  'No  thanks  to  me.  I  should  ha' 
burnt  'em,  Tempy,'  says  I." 

"Some  of  'em  came  to  our  house,  I 
know,"  said  Miss  Binson.  "  She  'd  take  a 
lot  o'  trouble  to  please  a  child,  'stead  o' 
shoving  of  it  out  o'  the  way,  like  the  rest  of 
us  when  we  're  drove." 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  215 

"  I  can  tell  you  the  biggest  thing  she  ever 
gave,  and  I  don't  know  's  there  's  anybody 
left  but  me  to  tell  it.  I  don't  want  it  for 
got,"  Sarah  Binson  went  on,  looking  up  at 
the  clock  to  see  how  the  night  was  going. 
"  It  was  that  pretty-looking  Trevor  girl,  who 
taught  the  Corners  school,  and  married  so 
well  afterwards,  out  in  New  York  State. 
You  remember  her,  I  dare  say  ?  " 

"  Certain,"  said  Mrs.  Crowe,  with  an  air 
of  interest. 

"  She  was  a  splendid  scholar,  folks  said, 
and  give  the  school  a  great  start ;  but  she  'd 
overdone  herself  getting  her  education,  and 
working  to  pay  for  it,  and  she  all  broke 
down  one  spring,  and  Tempy  made  her 
come  and  stop  with  her  a  while,  —  you  re 
member  that  ?  Well,  she  had  an  uncle,  her 
mother's  brother,  out  in  Chicago,  who  was 
well  off  and  friendly,  and  used  to  write  to 
Lizzie  Trevor,  and  I  dare  say  make  her 
some  presents  ;  but  he  was  a  lively,  driving 
man,  and  did  n't  take  time  to  stop  and  think 
about  his  folks.  He  had  n't  seen  her  since 
she  was  a  little  girl.  Poor  Lizzie  was  so 
pale  and  weakly  that  she  just  got  through  the 
term  o'  school.  She  looked  as  if  she  was  just 
going  straight  off  in  a  decline.  Tempy,  she 


216  MI 88   TEMPY'S  WATCHERS. 

cosseted  her  up  a  while,  and  then,  next  thing 
folks  knew,  she  was  tellin'  round  how  Miss 
Trevor  had  gone  to  see  her  uncle,  and  meant 
to  visit  Niagary  Falls  on  the  way,  and  stop 
over  night.  Now  I  happened  to  know,  in 
ways  I  won't  dwell  on  to  explain,  that  the 
poor  girl  was  in  debt  for  her  schoolin'  when 
she  come  here,  and  her  last  quarter's  pay 
had  just  squared  it  off  at  last,  and  left  her 
without  a  cent  ahead,  hardly  ;  but  it  had 
fretted  her  thinking  of  it,  so  she  paid  it  all ; 
they  might  have  dunned  her  that  she  owed 
it  to.  An'  I  taxed  Tempy  about  the  girl's 
goin'  off  on  such  a  journey  till  she  owned 
up,  rather  'n  have  Lizzie  blamed,  that  she  'd 
given  her  sixty  dollars,  same  's  if  she  was 
rolling  in  riches,  and  sent  her  off  to  have  a 
good  rest  and  vacation." 

"  Sixty  dollars !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crowe. 
"  Tempy  only  had  ninety  dollars  a  year  that 
came  in  to  her  ;  rest  of  her  livin'  she  got  by 
helpin'  about,  with  what  she  raised  off  this 
little  piece  o'  ground,  sand  one  side  an'  clay 
the  other.  An'  how  often  I  've  heard  her 
tell,  years  ago,  that  she  'd  rather  see  Niagary 
than  any  other  sight  in  the  world  !  " 

The  women  looked  at  each  other  in  si 
lence ;  the  magnitude  of  the  generous  sacri- 


MISS   TEMPTS   WATCHERS.  217 

fice  was  almost  too  great  for  their  compre 
hension. 

"  She  was  just  poor  enough  to  do  that !  " 
declared  Mrs.  Crowe  at  last,  in  an  abandon 
ment  of  feeling.  "  Say  what  you  may,  I 
feel  humbled  to  the  dust,"  and  her  compan 
ion  ventured  to  say  nothing.  She  never  had 
given  away  sixty  dollars  at  once,  but  it  was 
simply  because  she  never  had  it  to  give.  It 
came  to  her  very  lips  to  say  in  explanation, 
"Tempy  was  so  situated  ;  "  but  she  checked 
herself  in  time,  for  she  would  not  break  in 
upon  her  own  loyal  guarding  of  her  depend 
ent  household. 

"  Folks  say  a  great  deal  of  generosity, 
and  this  one's  being  public-sperited,  and 
that  one  free-handed  about  giving,"  said 
Mrs.  Crowe,  who  was  a  little  nervous  in  the 
silence.  "  I  suppose  we  can't  tell  the  sor 
row  it  would  be  to  some  folks  not  to  give, 
same 's  't  would  be  to  me  not  to  save.  I 
seem  kind  of  made  for  that,  as  if  't  was  what 
I  'd  got  to  do.  I  should  feel  sights  better 
about  it  if  I  could  make  it  evident  what  I 
was  savin'  for.  If  I  had  a  child,  now,  Sa 
rah  Ann,"  and  her  voice  was  a  little  husky, 
-  "  if  I  had  a  child,  I  should  think  I  was 
heapin'  of  it  up  because  he  was  the  one 


218  MISS   TEMPTS   WATCHERS. 

trained  by  the  Lord  to  scatter  it  again  for 
good.  But  here 's  Crowe  and  me,  we  can't 
do  anything  with  money,  and  both  of  us  like 
to  keep  things  same  's  they  've  always  been. 
Now  Priscilla  Dance  was  talking  away  like 
a  mill-clapper,  week  before  last.  She  'd 
think  I  would  go  right  off  and  get  one  o' 
them  new-fashioned  gilt-and-white  papers 
for  the  best  room,  and  some  new  furniture, 
an'  a  marble-top  table.  And  I  looked  at 
her,  all  struck  up.  '  Why,'  says  I,  '  Pris 
cilla,  that  nice  old  velvet  paper  ain't  hurt  a 
mite.  I  should  n't  feel  't  was  my  best  room 
without  it.  Dan'el  says  't  is  the  first  thing 
he  can  remember  rubbin'  his  little  baby  fin 
gers  on  to  it,  and  how  splendid  he  thought 
them  red  roses  was.'  I  maintain,"  continued 
Mrs.  Crowe  stoutly,  "that  folks  wastes 
sights  o'  good  money  doin'  just  such  foolish 
things.  Tearin'  out  the  in  sides  o'  meetin'- 
houses,  and  fixin'  the  pews  different ;  't  was 
good  enough  as  't  was  with  mendin'  ;  then 
times  come,  an'  they  want  to  put  it  all  back 
same  's  't  was  before." 

This  touched  upon  an  exciting  subject  to 
active  members  of  that  parish.  Miss  Bin- 
son  and  Mrs.  Crowe  belonged  to  opposite  par 
ties,  and  had  at  one  time  come  as  near  hard 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  219 

feelings  as  they  could,  and  yet  escape  them. 
Each  hastened  to  speak  of  other  things  and 
to  show  her  untouched  friendliness. 

"  I  do  agree  with  you,"  said  Sister  Binson, 
"  that  few  of  us  know  what  use  to  make 
of  money,  beyond  every -clay  necessities. 
You  've  seen  more  o'  the  world  than  I  have, 
and  know  what 's  expected.  When  it  comes 
to  taste  and  judgment  about  such  things,  I 
ought  to  defer  to  others ;  "  and  with  this 
modest  avowal  the  critical  moment  passed 
when  there  might  have  been  an  improper 
discussion. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  fact  of 
their  presence  in  a  house  of  death  grew  more 
clear  than  before.  There  was  something 
disturbing  in  the  noise  of  a  mouse  gnawing 
at  the  dry  boards  of  a  closet  wall  near  by. 
Both  the  watchers  looked  up  anxiously  at 
the  clock ;  it  was  almost  the  middle  of  the 
night,  and  the  whole  world  seemed  to  have 
left  them  alone  with  their  solemn  duty. 
Only  the  brook  was  awake. 

"Perhaps  we  might  give  a  look  up-stairs 
now,"  whispered  Mrs.  Crowe,  as  if  she 
hoped  to  hear  some  reason  against  their  go 
ing  just  then  to  the  chamber  of  death  ;  but 
Sister  Binson  rose,  with  a  serious  and  yet 


220  MISS   TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

satisfied  countenance,  and  lifted  the  small 
lamp  from  the  table.  She  was  much  more 
used  to  watching  than  Mrs.  Crowe,  and 
much  less  affected  by  it.  They  opened  the 
door  into  a  small  entry  with  a  steep  stair 
way  ;  they  climbed  the  creaking  stairs,  and 
entered  the  cold  upper  room  on  tiptoe. 
Mrs.  Crowe's  heart  began  to  beat  very  fast 
as  the  lamp  was  put  on  a  high  bureau,  and 
made  long,  fixed  shadows  about  the  walls. 
She  went  hesitatingly  toward  the  solemn 
shape  under  its  white  drapery,  and  felt  a 
sense  of  remonstrance  as  Sarah  Ann  gently, 
but  in  a  business-like  way,  turned  back  the 
thin  sheet. 

44  Seems  to  me  she  looks  pleasanter  and 
pleasanter,"  whispered  Sarah  Ann  Binson 
impulsively,  as  they  gazed  at  the  white  face 
with  its  wonderful  smile.  "To-morrow 
't  will  all  have  faded  out.  I  do  believe  they 
kind  of  wake  up  a  day  or  two  after  they  die, 
and  it 's  then  they  go."  She  replaced  the 
light  covering,  and  they  both  turned  quickly 
away ;  there  was  a  chill  in  this  upper  room. 

"  'T  is  a  great  thing  for  anybody  to  have 
got  through,  ain't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Crowe 
softly,  as  she  began  to  go  down  the  stairs 
on  tiptoe.  The  warm  air  from  the  kitchen 


MISS   TEMPTS    WATCHERS.  221 

beneath  met  them  with  a  sense  of  welcome 
and  shelter. 

44 1  don'  know  why  it  is,  but  I  feel  as 
near  again  to  Tempy  down  here  as  I  do  up 
there,"  replied  Sister  Binson.  "  I  feel  as  if 
the  air  was  full  of  her,  kind  of.  I  can  sense 
things,  now  and  then,  that  she  seems  to  say. 
Now  I  never  was  one  to  take  up  with  no 
nonsense  of  sperits  and  such,  but  I  declare  I 
felt  as  if  she  told  me  just  now  to  put  some 
more  wood  into  the  stove." 

Mrs.  Crowe  preserved  a  gloomy  silence. 
She  had  suspected  before  this  that  her  com 
panion  was  of  a  weaker  and  more  credulous 
disposition  than  herself.  "  'T  is  a  great 
thing  to  have  got  through,"  she  repeated, 
ignoring  definitely  all  that  had  last  been 
said.  "  I  suppose  you  know  as  well  as  I 
that  Tempy  was  one  that  always  feared 
death.  Well,  it 's  all  put  behind  her  now  ; 
she  knows  what  '  t  is."  Mrs.  Crowe  gave  a 
little  sigh,  and  Sister  Binson's  quick  sym 
pathies  were  stirred  toward  this  other  old 
friend,  who  also  dreaded  the  great  change. 

"  I  'd  never  like  to  f  orgit  almost  those  last 
words  Tempy  spoke  plain  to  me,"  she  said 
gently,  like  the  comforter  she  truly  was. 
"She  looked  up  at  me  once  or  twice,  that 


222  MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

last  afternoon  after  I  come  to  set  by  her,  and 
let  Mis'  Owen  go  home  ;  and  I  says,  4  Can  I 
do  anything  to  ease  you,  Tempy  ? '  and  the 
tears  come  into  my  eyes  so  I  could  n't  see 
what  kind  of  a  nod  she  give  me.  '  No,  Sarah 
Ann,  you  can't,  dear,'  says  she  ;  and  then 
she  got  her  breath  again,  and  says  she,  look 
ing  at  me  real  meanin',  '  I  'm  only  a-gettin' 
sleepier  and  sleepier ;  that 's  all  there  is,' 
says  she,  and  smiled  up  at  me  kind  of  wish 
ful,  and  shut  her  eyes.  I  knew  well  enough 
all  she  meant.  She  'd  been  lookin'  out  for 
a  chance  to  tell  me,  and  I  don'  know's  she 
ever  said  much  afterwards." 

Mrs.  Crowe  was  not  knitting ;  she  had 
been  listening  too  eagerly.  "  Yes,  't  will  be 
a  comfort  to  think  of  that  sometimes,"  she 
said,  in  acknowledgment. 

"  I  know  that  old  Dr.  Prince  said  once, 
in  evenin'  meetin',  that  he  'd  watched  by 
many  a  dyin'  bed,  as  we  well  knew,  and 
enough  o'  his  sick  folks  had  been  scared  o' 
dyin'  their  whole  lives  through ;  but  when 
they  come  to  the  last,  he  'd  never  seen  one 
but  was  willin',  and  most  were  glad,  to  go. 
1  'T  is  as  natural  as  bein'  born  or  livin'  on,' 
he  said.  I  don't  know  what  had  moved  him 
to  speak  that  night.  You  know  he  wa'n't 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  223 

in  the  habit  of  it,  and  't  was  the  monthly 
concert  of  prayer  for  foreign  missions  any 
ways,"  said  Sarah  Ann  ;  "  but 't  was  a  great 
stay  to  the  mind  to  listen  to  his  words  of  ex 
perience." 

"  There  never  was  a  better  man,"  re 
sponded  Mrs.  Crowe,  in  a  really  cheerful 
tone.  She  had  recovered  from  her  feeling 
of  nervous  dread,  the  kitchen  was  so  com 
fortable  with  lamplight  and  firelight;  and 
just  then  the  old  clock  began  to  tell  the  hour 
of  twelve  with  leisurely  whirring  strokes. 

Sister  Einson  laid  aside  her  work,  and 
rose  quickly  and  went  to  the  cupboard. 
"  We  'd  better  take  a  little  to  eat,"  she  ex 
plained.  "  The  night  will  go  fast  after  this. 
I  want  to  know  if  you  went  and  made  some 
o'  your  nice  cupcake,  while  you  was  home 
to-day  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  pleased  tone  ;  and 
Mrs.  Crowe  acknowledged  such  a  gratify 
ing  piece  of  thoughtfulness  for  this  humble 
friend  who  denied  herself  all  luxuries. 
Sarah  Ann  brewed  a  generous  cup  of  tea, 
and  the  watchers  drew  their  chairs  up  to 
the  table  presently,  and  quelled  their  hun 
ger  with  good  country  appetites.  Sister  Bin- 
son  put  a  spoon  into  a  small,  old-fashioned 
glass  of  preserved  quince,  and  passed  it  to 


224  MISS  TEMPTS   WATCHERS. 

her  friend.  She  was  most  familiar  with 
the  house,  and  played  the  part  of  hostess. 
"  Spread  some  o'  this  on  your  bread  and 
butter,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Crowe.  "  Tempy 
wanted  me  to  use  some  three  or  four  times, 
but  I  never  felt  to.  I  know  she  'd  like  to 
have  us  comfortable  now,  and  would  urge 
us  to  make  a  good  supper,  poor  dear." 

"  What  excellent  preserves  she  did 
make  !  "  mourned  Mrs.  Crowe.  "  None  of 
us  has  got  her  light  hand  at  doin'  things 
tasty.  She  made  the  most  o'  everything, 
too.  Now,  she  only  had  that  one  old  quince- 
tree  down  in  the  far  corner  of  the  piece,  but 
she  'd  go  out  in  the  spring  and  tend  to  it, 
and  look  at  it  so  pleasant,  and  kind  of  ex 
pect  the  old  thorny  thing  into  bloomin'." 

"  She  was  just  the  same  with  folks,"  said 
Sarah  Ann.  "  And  she  'd  never  git  more  'n 
a  little  apernful  o'  quinces,  but  she  'd  have 
every  mite  o'  goodness  out  o'  those,  and  set 
the  glasses  up  onto  her  best-room  closet 
shelf,  so  pleased.  'T  wa'n't  but  a  week  ago 
to-morrow  mornin'  I  fetched  her  a  little  taste 
o'  jelly  in  a  teaspoon  ;  and  she  says  4  Thank 
ye,'  and  took  it,  an'  the  minute  she  tasted  it 
she  looked  up  at  me  as  worried  as  could 
be.  '  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  eat  that,'  says  she. 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  225 

'  I  always  keep  that  in  case  o'  sickness.' 
4  You  're  goin'  to  have  the  good  o'  one  tumbler 
yourself,'  says  I.  4 1  'cl  just  like  to  know 
who 's  sicl^  now,  if  you  ain't ! '  An'  she 
could  n't  help  laughin',  I  spoke  up  so  smart. 
Oh,  dear  me,  how  I  shall  miss  talkin'  over 
things  with  her  !  She  always  sensed  things, 
and  got  just  the  p'int  you  meant." 

"She  didn't  begin  to  age  until  two  or 
three  years  ago,  did  she  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Crowe.  "  I  never  saw  anybody  keep  her 
looks  as  Tempy  did.  She  looked  young  long 
after  I  begun  to  feel  like  an  old  woman. 
The  doctor  used  to  say  't  was  her  young 
heart,  and  I  don't  know  but  what  he  was 
right.  How  she  did  do  for  other  folks ! 
There  was  one  spell  she  was  n't  at  home  a 
day  to  a  fortnight.  She  got  most  of  her 
livin'  so,  and  that  made  her  own  potatoes 
and  things  last  her  through.  None  o'  the 
young  folks  could  get  married  without  her, 
and  all  the  old  ones  was  disappointed  if  she 
wa'n't  round  when  they  was  down  with 
sickness  and  had  to  go.  An'  cleanin',  or 
tailorin'  for  boys,  or  rug-hookin',  —  there 
was  nothin'  but  what  she  could  do  as  handy 
as  most.  '  I  do  love  to  work,'  —  ain't  you 
heard  her  say  that  twenty  times  a  week  ?  " 


226  MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS. 

Sarah  Ann  Binson  nodded,  and  began  to 
clear  away  the  empty  plates.  "  We  may 
want  a  taste  o'  somethin'  more  towards 
mornin',"  she  said.  "  There  's  plenty  in  the 
closet  here ;  and  in  case  some  comes  from 
a  distance  to  the  funeral,  we  '11  have  a  little 
table  spread  after  we  get  back  to  the  house." 

"  Yes,  I  was  busy  all  the  mornin'.  I  've 
cooked  up  a  sight  o'  things  to  bring  over," 
said  Mrs.  Crowe.  "  I  felt  't  was  the  last  I 
could  do  for  her." 

They  drew  their  chairs  near  the  stove 
again,  and  took  up  their  work.  Sister  Bin- 
son's  rocking-chair  creaked  as  she  rocked  ; 
the  brook  sounded  louder  than  ever.  It  was 
more  lonely  when  nobody  spoke,  and  pres 
ently  Mrs.  Crowe  returned  to  her  thoughts 
of  growing  old. 

"  Yes,  Tempy  aged  all  of  a  sudden.  I 
remember  I  asked  her  if  she  felt  as  well  as 
common,  one  day,  and  she  laughed  at  me 
good.  There,  when  Dan'el  begun  to  look 
old,  I  could  n't  help  feeling  as  if  somethin' 
ailed  him,  and  like  as  not  't  was  somethin' 
he  was  goin'  to  git  right  over,  and  I  dosed 
him  for  it  stiddy,  half  of  one  summer." 

"  How  many  things  we  shall  be  wanting 
to  ask  Tempy ! "  exclaimed  Sarah  Ann 


MISS  TEMPTS  WATCHERS.  227 

Binson,  after  a  long  pause.  "  I  can't  make 
up  my  mind  to  doin'  without  her.  I  wish 
folks  could  come  back  just  once,  and  tell  us 
how 'tis  wjiere  they've  gone.  Seems  then 
we  could  do  without  'em  better." 

The  brook  hurried  on,  the  wind  blew 
about  the  house  now  and  then  ;  the  house 
itself  was  a  silent  place,  and  the  supper,  the 
warm  fire,  and  an  absence  of  any  new  topics 
for  conversation  made  the  watchers  drowsy. 
Sister  Binson  closed  her  eyes  first,  to  rest 
them  for  a  minute ;  and  Mrs.  Crowe  glanced 
at  her  compassionately,  with  a  new  sympathy 
for  the  hard -worked  little  woman.  She 
made  up  her  mind  to  let  Sarah  Ann  have  a 
good  rest,  while  she  kept  watch  alone ;  but 
in  a  few  minutes  her  own  knitting  was 
dropped,  and  she,  too,  fell  asleep.  Over 
head,  the  pale  shape  of  Tempy  Dent,  the 
outworn  body  of  that  generous,  loving- 
hearted,  simple  soul,  slept  on  also  in  its 
white  raiment.  Perhaps  Tempy  herself 
stood  near,  and  saw  her  own  life  and  its 
surroundings  with  new  understanding.  Per 
haps  she  herself  was  the  only  watcher. 

Later,  by  some  hours,  Sarah  Ann  Binson 
woke  with  a  start.  There  was  a  pale  light 


228  MISS  TEMPTS   WATCHERS. 

of  dawn  outside  the  small  windows.  Inside 
the  kitchen,  the  lamp  burned  dim.  Mrs. 
Crowe  awoke,  too. 

"  I  think  Tempy  VI  be  the  first  to  say 
'twas  just  as  well  we  both  had  some  rest," 
she  said,  not  without  a  guilty  feeling. 

Her  companion  went  to  the  outer  door, 
and  opened  it  wide.  The  fresh  air  was 
none  too  cold,  and  the  brook's  voice  was  not 
nearly  so  loud  as  it  had  been  in  the  mid 
night  darkness.  She  could  see  the  shapes 
of  the  hills,  and  the  great  shadows  that  lay 
across  the  lower  country.  The  east  was  fast 
growing  bright. 

"  'T  will  be  a  beautiful  day  for  the  fu 
neral,"  she  said,  and  turned  again,  with  a 
sigh,  to  follow  Mrs.  Crowe  up  the  stairs. 
The  world  seemed  more  and  more  empty 
without  the  kind  face  and  helpful  hands  of 
Tempy  Dent. 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 


I. 

MADAM  JAFFREY  in  her  later  years  always 
sat  at  one  of  her  front  parlor  windows  in 
the  winter  afternoons.  But  one  day,  many 
years  ago,  she  was  not  there,  and  passers-by 
missed  her  kindly  greeting  or  the  smiling 
nod  of  invitation  with  which  she  was  apt  to 
favor  her  intimate  acquaintances.  One  could 
not  help  being  uneasy  at  her  absence ;  she 
was  an  older  woman  than  her  years  and  like 
a  piece  of  her  own  frail  china.  She  had  seen 
much  trouble,  but  there  never  was  a  braver 
heart. 

As  you  went  by  on  the  flagstoned  pave 
ment,  you  could  see  the  south  parlor  at  a 
glance.  The  delightful  old-fashioned  room 
was  flooded  with  sunlight.  If  you  lingered 
for  a  moment,  you  could  look  through  and  be 
yond  the  room  itself,  and  see  the  old  garden 
pear-trees  whose  fruit  all  Grafton  knew. 
Where  could  Madam  Jaffrey  be  ?  and  where 


230  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

was  Miss  Esther  Jaffrey  this  February  after- 
noon  ? 

The  two  ladies  are  sitting  in  an  upper 
chamber  together,  and  suffering  the  first 
pangs  of  a  great  disappointment.  All  Graf- 
ton  knows  the  story  of  their  pinching  econo 
mies,  and  the  cheerful  sacrifice  of  their  own 
comfort,  and  that  these  have  been  reckoned 
as  nothing  in  their  pride  and  joy  at  further 
ing  the  interests  of  Leonard  Jaffrey,  the  only 
son  and  last  hope  of  his  house  and  name. 
Perhaps  if  the  good  unworldly  women  had 
known  the  increased  expense  of  a  college 
education,  as  compared  with  the  prim  figures 
in  ancient  family  account  books,  they  would 
have  lacked  courage  for  even  this  darling 
project  of  their  hearts,  but  from  the  time 
of  the  boy's  babyhood  there  had  never  been 
any  question  of  his  being  sent  to  Harvard 
College.  The  Jaffrey  men  had  all  been 
graduates.  Famous  old  Marlborough  Jaf 
frey,  the  first  of  them  in  the  colonies,  was 
an  Oxford  student  who  forsook  his  scholar's 
gown  for  a  new- world  enterprise,  and  though 
money  grew  scarcer  as  the  last  of  his  grand 
sons  grew  older,  the  brave  ladies  looked 
forward  hopefully  to  the  days  when  their 
sacrifices  would  be  returned  to  them  four- 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  231 

fold.  They  thought  of  Leonard  Jaffrey's 
ancestry  as  if  it  were  a  solvent  bank  of  dis 
tinctions  and  emoluments  in  which  he  had 
a  noble  credit  account.  If  he  could  not 
represent  the  actual  wealth  of  old  Marl- 
borough,  —  for  this,  in  their  poverty,  might 
have  been  most  alluring,  —  he  could  at  least 
reembody  the  shade  of  his  grandfather,  the 
great  jurist,  or,  failing  him,  there  had  been 
well-salaried  and  devout  clergymen.  His 
own  father  had  chosen  this  career  lovingly 
and  died  young,  but  already  famous  ;  in  the 
collateral  branches  of  the  family  tree  hung 
plenty  of  well-ripened  fruit.  But  it  ap 
peared  sometimes  as  if  Leonard  had  de 
scended  not  from  these  but  from  some  less 
worthy  infusion  of  sap  ;  some  heedless  al 
liance  which  had  been  quickly  overlooked 
and  ignored  had  yet  left  its  corrupting  and 
perverting  influence  in  the  Jaffrey  blood. 
This  young  scholar  was  a  very  Jaffrey  to 
look  at ;  you  could  make  up  his  somewhat 
characterless  face  from  the  features  of  the 
family  portraits  —  a  nose  here,  an  eye-brow 
there,  a  lock  of  waving  brown  hair  from  his 
wistful-eyed  father  in  gown  and  bands.  Yet 
he  had  not  the  spirit  of  the  Jaffreys,  this 
Leonard  who  was  the  last  of  them,  and  it 


232  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

was  only  in  sad  and  disheartened  reveries 
that  his  sister  was  forced  to  acknowledge 
this  melancholy  deficiency.  If  she  had  been 
the  son !  she  often  said  to  herself  with  a  sur 
ging  thrill  of  pride  and  daring.  If  she  had 
been  the  son  how  she  could  work  and  win  her 
way,  and  not  be  the  least  of  those  who  had 
borne  the  Jaffrey  name  unsullied  !  But  she 
was  only  a  woman,  and  the  Jaffreys  were 
more  provincial  than  they  used  to  be  —  a  Jaf- 
frey  of  Graf  ton  could  not  lead  public  opin 
ion  in  unfeminine  directions ;  she  was  not  a 
social  reformer  but  fiercely  conservative  at 
heart.  She  had  denied  herself  everything 
that  could  be  denied,  but  treated  her  mother 
like  a  queen  in  exile,  and  so  with  sinking 
heart  and  dwindling  hopes  they  came  at  last 
to  this  day  when  a  letter  had  arrived  from 
Leonard  to  say  that  he  had  finally  forsaken 
any  intention  of  exercising  his  profession. 
His  general  studies  would  more  than  fill 
his  time,  and  he  had  conscientious  scruples 
against  preaching  the  dogmas  of  the  faith  in 
which  he  had  been  reared  and  trained.  And 
the  two  women  knew  that  there  was  to  be 
no  such  thing  as  persuading  him  to  change 
his  mind.  The  Jaffreys  had  always  won 
their  fame  by  their  power  of  decision.  Leon- 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  233 

ard  had  said  I  will  not !  and  could  hang  back 
with  all  the  steadfastness  with  which  his  an 
cestors  had  said  I  will !  and  then  pushed 
forward  to  their  goals. 

Now  the  acknowledgment  must  be  made 
that  he  had  disappointed  all  hopes  from  the 
first.  From  the  day  that  Miss  Jaffrey  with 
eager,  elder-sisterly  forethought  had  looked 
through  the  list  of  his  classmates  and  re 
joiced  to  find  a  Quincy,  a  Boylston,  a  Win- 
throp,  or  a  Gardiner,  and  gladly  planned  for 
the  resuming  of  old  family  alliances  and 
friendship,  only  to  find  her  brother  uninter 
ested  and  even  reluctant ;  from  the  day 
when  she  sadly  acknowledged  that  Leonard 
saw  the  world  through  strange  eyes  and  was 
indifferent  to  the  old  home  standards,  she 
had  been  driven  back  inch  by  inch  to  the 
very  stronghold  of  her  opinions.  She  only 
held  to  her  own  instincts  and  the  Jaffrey 
code  all  the  more  fiercely  because  there  was 
a  traitor  on  the  very  throne.  Something 
must  be  allowed  for  the  natural  rebellion  of 
a  young  man  to  petticoat  government,  but 
the  fact  remained  that  Leonard  Jaffrey  was 
indifferent  to  worldly  honor,  careless  of  the 
world's  needs  or  its  demands,  in  no  wise 
public-spirited,  and  a  strange  bird  altogether 


234  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

to  have  been  hatched  in  the  ambitious  Jaf- 
frey  nest. 

Fortunately  the  already  aged  and  fading 
mother  was  not  forced  to  stay  long  in  this 
world  to  bewail  the  blasting  of  her  hopes, 
and  make  futile  excuses  for  her  wrong- 
headed  boy.  By  the  time  he  came  home 
from  his  theological  school  with  a  collection 
of  miscellaneous  volumes  for  which  he  must 
have  practiced  economies  only  second  in  se 
verity  to  those  which  had  kept  him  a  student 
at  all,  Madam  Jaffrey  had  but  time  to  see 
him  once  or  twice  in  her  darkened  room  ;  to 
whisper  that  she  forgave  him  her  disappoint 
ment  and  respected  his  conscientiousness. 
Leonard  vaguely  understood  these  expres 
sions,  but  her  death  touched  him  deeply. 
Let  us  hope  that  he  regretted  his  inability 
to  win  either  gain  or  glory  to  lay  at  her  feet, 
and  saw  at  last  in  one  swift  flash  of  light, 
his  own  torpor,  and  the  burden  he  had  let 
this  patient  mother  carry.  He  was  only 
made  more  silent  by  the  loss  and  change  in 
his  home,  and  there  was  a  more  impene 
trable  barrier  than  ever  set  up  between  him 
and  his  sister  Esther.  She  was  the  eldest 
of  a  large  family  of  children  of  whom  all 
had  died  but  Leonard  and  herself,  and  their 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  235 

relationship  was  somehow  unequal ;  not  that 
of  a  brother  and  sister  who  have  constantly 
seen  life  from  somewhere  near  the  same 
angle.  He  was  only  too  well  aware  of  her 
noble  rectitude  and  loyalty  and  her  uncom 
mon  powers  of  mind,  even  of  her  good  looks, 
which  seemed  to  increase  instead  of  paling 
with  the  march  of  years  —  but  he  felt  her 
generosity  like  a  chain  of  steel,  and  the 
memory  of  her  sacrifices  and  her  opinion  of 
his  course  burnt  him  like  living  coals.  Per 
haps  he  thought  it  wiser  not  to  undertake  a 
career  in  which  he  foresaw  inevitable  failure, 
perhaps  it  was  simply  that  the  natural  in 
dolence  and  love  of  a  book-worm's  life  filled 
his  whole  horizon.  Pie  went  away  directly 
after  his  mother's  funeral,  for  he  could  bear 
neither  the  sight  of  the  empty  rooms,  nor 
the  weight  of  his  sister's  stately  courtesy, 
which  only  covered  that  sullen  disapproval  of 
himself  that  lay  beneath.  But  to  this  sister 
he  was  still  a  Jaffrey,  and  however  carefully 
she  avoided  meeting  his  eyes,  she  was  able 
to  speak  of  him  serenely  to  her  acquaint 
ances,  and  to  acknowledge  without  hesita 
tion  that  he  intended  to  lead  the  life  of  a 
student  henceforth,  and  instead  of  following 
his  profession  had  decided  to  become  a  man 


236  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

of  letters.  She  liked  to  repeat  the  words, 
"  a  man  of  letters ; "  yes,  Leonard  was  a 
Jaffrey  and  had  a  Jaffrey's  right.  But 
those  who  knew  the  household  best  puzzled 
their  brains  to  know  by  what  means  it  was 
to  be  sustained.  The  Jaffrey  lands  had 
shrunk  to  the  limits  of  the  old  pear-tree 
garden  and  a  strip  of  decaying  wharf-prop 
erty  by  the  river ;  the  Jaffrey  fortune  had 
been  spent  almost  to  the  last  farthing  in 
uncomplaining  furtherance  of  the  scholar's 
welfare.  Here  he  was,  stranded  in  the  old 
house  with  as  much  energy  as  a  barnacle, 
looking  already  close  upon  middle-age  from 
his  lack  of  physical  activity ;  the  most  un 
productive  man  of  letters  in  New  England, 
with  no  apparent  value  either  social  or  com 
mercial.  A  step  farther  and  he  would  only 
have  become  what  the  canny  Scotsmen  call 
"  a  stickit  minister." 


II. 

There  were  enough  of  the  old  people  left 
in  Grafton  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  to 
suffer  an  acute  attack  of  pain  and  misgiv 
ing,  when  the  news  was  whispered  to  and 
fro  under  the  elms  that  Miss  Esther  Jaffrey 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  237 

intended  to  keep  a  ladies'  shop.  The  imme 
diate  reason  for  it  was  so  aggravating  that 
a  great  deal  of  unkind  comment  flew  about 
the  indignant  town ;  there  was  an  unusual 
visiting  from  house  to  house,  and  some  of 
Miss  Jaffrey's  own  friends  were  heard  to 
say  sorrowfully  that  it  would  be  more  than 
they  could  bear  to  see  her  stand  to  serve 
them  behind  the  counter.  Her  grandfather 
the  judge's  office,  her  granduncle's  ministe 
rial  study ;  her  own  father's  study,  and  the 
place  that  knew  his  youthful  hopes,  the 
writing  of  his  famous  and  saintly  sermons, 
and  the  burning  of  much  midnight  oil; 
what  a  degradation  it  seemed  to  put  the  old 
room  to  this  new  use.  Besides  this,  had  it 
not  been  the  counting-room  of  Marlborough 
Jaffrey,  the  great  colonial  merchant  ?  Here 
he  had  kept  the  papers  of  those  busy  two 
hundred-ton  ships  which  had  earned  his  for 
tune  ;  here  he  lived  his  long  and  noted  life, 
and  defied  wind  and  weather,  time  and  tide, 
as  he  pushed  forward  his  bold  enterprises 
through  half  a  score  of  distant  seas.  From 
the  small-paned  windows  he  could  look  far 
clown  the  broad  tide-river  which  seemed  to 
dutifully  dispatch  its  lazy  waters  toward  the 
ocean  and  draw  them  back  again  twice  a  day 


238  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

in  deference  to  his  fleet  of  packets  and  gun- 
dalows,  deep-laden  with  their  out-bound  or 
incoming  cargoes.  Those  were  rich  and  glori 
ous  days  for  Grafton,  but  nobody  had  made 
any  money  since.  Not  only  the  merchant's 
own  descendants  but  everybody  else  had  lived 
on  the  remains  of  their  ancient  fortunes, 
except  for  the  yearly  produce  of  the  farms 
and  a  barely  sufficient  local  system  of  petty 
commerce.  The  farms,  the  few  large  houses 
in  the  village,  even  the  high-steepled  church 
itself,  had  been  paid  for  with  money  that  had 
come  in  the  Jaffrey  ships.  But  it  is  long 
since  anybody  had  chosen  the  business  of 
sailor  —  there  are  only  a  few  slippery  old 
sticks  of  oak  timber  left  in  the  river-mud, 
and  the  fortunes  have  all  dwindled  away. 
The  embargo  gave  a  killing  blow  to  the 
prosperity  of  Grafton,  and  spendthrifts  and 
foolish  men  and  women  and  the  wear  of 
time  have  been  undermining  the  once  secure 
investments  ever  since.  The  worst  punish 
ment  fell  upon  the  town's  pride  when  no 
sooner  had  the  news  been  told  of  a  certain 
Mary  Destin's  giving  up  her  business  in 
small  wares,  than  it  was  also  known  that 
Miss  Esther  Jaffrey  had  made  definite  ar 
rangements  to  become  her  successor.  Miss 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  239 

Esther  Jaffrey,  like  Hawthorne's  Miss  Pyn- 
cheon,  had  become  reduced  to  the  keeping  of 
a  shop.  The  bulwarks  of  social  safety  were 
broken  down,  and  public  opinion  was  ready 
to  reproach  the  former  owner  of  the  business, 
since  it  was  vaguely  believed  that  if  Mary 
Destin  had  not  planned  to  go  westward  to 
live  with  a  married  sister,  this  catastrophe 
would  have  been  averted.  Her  good  sense 
in  making  the  change  was  loudly  questioned  ; 
there  was  a  general  feeling  as  if  she  had 
somehow  involved  another's  ruin,  that  she 
ought  to  have  remained  in  her  own  lot  and 
place. 

III. 

Since  we  looked  in  at  the  parlor  windows 
many  things  have  happened,  but  there  is  no 
apparent  difference  in  the  room  itself  except 
that  Madam  Jaffrey  has  gone  away.  It  is 
two  weeks  now  since  she  died,  and  they  have 
been  two  bitterly  anxious  weeks  to  the  lonely 
daughter  who  has  seen  the  small  hours  of 
nearly  every  night,  and  has  wondered  what 
her  future  could  be  until  her  brain  has  been 
fairly  burning,  and  her  eyes  fixed  wide  open 
in  a  sleeplessness  that  seemed  to  drain  her 
very  soul  of  its  strength.  Nobody  knew 


240  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

her  sorrows  now,  save  herself ;  there  was 
110  longer  any  incentive  for  keeping  them 
back  lest  some  one  else  might  sorrow  the 
more.  She  had  nobody  to  keep  cheerful  for 
now,  since  her  mother  died.  Loyal  Betty, 
the  one  maid-servant,  was  dim  and  dull  of 
wits,  except  in  her  own  province,  and  she 
and  Miss  Jaffrey  plodded  their  frugal  way 
together  with  little  conscious  thought  of  each 
other.  Betty's  hero  was  Mr.  Leonard,  and 
yet  she  was  taught  by  instinct  to  be  silent 
about  him  before  her  younger  mistress,  even 
in  the  days  when  Madam  Jaffrey  took  joy  in 
telling  of  his  poor  triumphs  and  that  noble 
future  apparently  now  more  remote  than  ever. 
Betty  had  been  a  great  resource  to  the  boy's 
mother  ;  Betty  saw  no  reason  why  the  most 
improbable  successes  might  not  come  to  pass. 
The  house  seemed  very  much  too  large  now 
adays,  and  it  was  a  poor  mockery  when  it 
was  set  in  order,  as  if  for  guests,  during  the 
early  summer.  Some  of  the  furnishings  were 
already  threadbare,  but  the  old  timbers  were 
live-hearted,  and  the  long  purses  of  its  ear 
lier  inhabitants  had  shaped  it  with  the  sound 
est  and  best  wood  and  fabric  of  their  day. 
Little  need  be  spent  on  it  for  years  to  come, 
but  this  was  a  starved  and  sorry  life  com- 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  241 

pared  with  the  earlier  abundance,  the  luxury, 
the  cheerful  company,  the  busy  maids  and 
men  of  an  earlier  time.  Just  when  the  need 
of  getting  into  debt  came  now  like  a  crouch 
ing  tiger  into  Esther  Jaffrey's  well-trodden 
path,  the  deliverance  was  also  there,  a  mel 
ancholy  alternative,  but  welcomed  by  her 
with  all  a  Jaffrey's  pride  in  independence 
and  self-respect.  It  was  indeed  sad  to  think 
of  shop-keeping  at  her  age,  and  under  the 
shadow  of  her  family  tree,  but  it  would  be 
much  sadder  to  have  no  shop  to  keep,  no  way 
to  look  for  deliverance  from  her  poverty. 
Before  the  good  people  of  Graf  ton  had  ceased 
gasping,  and  had  half  reviewed  the  resources 
of  friends,  and  fitting  employments  which 
surely  belonged  to  their  leader,  the  goods 
of  Mary  Destin  had  become  those  of  Esther 
Jaffrey,  and  the  small  projecting  room  next 
the  sunny  parlor  which  had  been  counting- 
house  and  study  by  turns  —  this  historic 
room  which  opened  handily  to  the  street  was 
insulted  by  a  stained  wood  counter  and  mea 
gre  show-cases,  with  boxes  of  thread  and 
needles,  and  whalebone  and  edgings  and  all 
the  minor  wares  that  home-keeping  women 
need  in  their  daily  work  of  mending  and 
making.  Miss  Jaffrey's  shop  !  would  it  ever 


242  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

seem  right  to  say  it  —  could  one  ever  men 
tion  its  resources  unconsciously,  or  dare  to 
suggest  better  bargains  ?  Mary  Destin  was 
a  cheerful  gossip  and  a  born  tradeswoman ; 
she  had  gone  away  contented  with  the  value 
of  an  ancient  silver-set  diamond  ring  safely 
pinned  into  her  pocket.  And  yet  Miss  Jaf- 
f  rey  had  not  ceased  to  be  a  lady  because  she 
had  begun  to  keep  a  shop.  As  one  woman 
after  another  ventured  in  to  make  a  neces 
sary  purchase  after  the  first  awed  week,  they 
found  her  more  friendly  and  sympathetic 
than  ever.  She  was  ready  to  talk  across  the 
counter,  to  take  a  bit  off  her  prices  when 
she  heard  a  lofty  hint  of  the  article  being 
too  expensive.  She  only  listened  with  wist 
ful  eagerness  when  a  story  was  told  that  a 
former  resident  of  Grafton  had  given  the 
old  town  a  vast  sum  of  money  for  a  public 
library.  The  Jaffreys'  day  was  almost  over, 
but  no  jealousy  of  any  new  patrons  seemed 
to  be  in  her  generous  heart.  In  fact  Miss 
Jaffrey  now  first  became  really  known  to 
some  of  the  Grafton  people  who  had  wished 
through  envy  and  conscious  inferiority  to 
take  pennyworths  out  of  her  high  reputa 
tion.  They  could  not  help  being  pleased 
with  her  lovely  bearing,  and  her  serene  ac- 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  243 

ceptance  of  her  altered  fortunes.  And  so 
the  enterprise  of  her  later  life  began  with 
the  sympathy  and  blessing  of  all  who  knew 
her.  The  familiar  white-lettered  black  boxes 
of  ships'  papers  that  had  belonged  to  rich 
old  Marlborough  Jaffrey  were  still  perched 
in  line  on  a  high  upper  shelf  that  corniced 
the  room.  All  his  descendants  had  been 
proud  to  keep  them  there.  Ship  Esther, 
Brig  Marlborough,  Brig  Brasenose,  Ship 
Palatine,  Ship  Pactolus ;  how  well  Miss  Jaf 
frey  knew  the  long  row ;  they  were  almost 
like  funereal  coffers  that  held  the  ashes  of 
her  ancestors. 

During  the  second  week  after  the  shop 
was  opened  Mr.  Leonard  Jaffrey  came  home. 
He  had  already  sent  some  of  his  books,  and 
dimly  expected  to  find  them  neatly  placed 
on  the  shelves ;  now  he  brought  more,  and  as 
he  drew  near  the  old  house  he  looked  with 
eagerness  at  the  study  windows  as  if  there 
must  be  his  true  home  henceforth.  He  had 
already  planned  the  disposition  of  his  treas 
ures  with  rare  enthusiasm  ;  but  he  was  sud 
denly  aware  of  strange  shapes  and  colors 
behind  the  familiar  small  panes.  Could 
Esther  have  let  the  room  to  a  stranger  ? 
He  grew  dizzy  for  a  moment  with  uncharac- 


244  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

teristic  wrath,  then  he  was  smitten,  let  us 
hope,  with  regret.  When  the  trunks  were 
carried  into  the  wide  hall,  and  he  stood  un 
certain  what  to  do,  feeling  for  once  the  weak 
man  he  was  from  his  lack  of  force  and 
strange  inadequacy,  Miss  Jaffrey  made  her 
appearance.  She  was  singularly  gentle  to 
ward  him,  indeed  was  not  she  his  protector 
and  defender,  had  not  she  solved  the  puz 
zling  problem  of  their  being  clothed  and 
fed  ?  And  the  sister  and  brother  kissed 
each  other  with  a  softening  remembrance  of 
the  mother  who  had  loved  them  both  and 
been  patient  with  them,  and  from  that  day 
forward  the  shop  was  never  discussed,  or  in 
any  way  berated. 

IV. 

It  sometimes  appeared  as  if  nature  had 
destined  Leonard  Jaffrey  for  a  reservoir  of 
learning.  He  was  absolutely  without  any 
original  thoughts  or  gifts,  he  was  unproduc 
tive  from  the  beginning,  yet  with  unquenched 
appetite  he  devoured  the  wisdom  and  imag 
ination  that  were  stored  between  his  book 
covers.  Unsated,  unflagging,  unforeseeing, 
he  became  at  last  a  perfectly  unavailable 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  245 

treasury  of  other  people's  knowledge,  like 
some  lake  that  has  no  outlet.  Yet  there 
surely  must  have  been  an  invisible  exhauster 
of  his  hoards  to  correspond  to  the  lake's 
evaporations ;  not  speech,  for  he  grew  silent 
and  withdrew  more  and  more  into  himself  as 
years  went  by.  Miss  Jaffrey  was  much  the 
gainer  by  her  increased  facility  for  inter 
course  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  wo 
men,  but  the  brother  seemed  to  have  let  his 
individuality  ooze  out  to  the  dry  pages  of  his 
books  as  if  they  were  a  species  of  treacher 
ous  blotting  paper,  and  destined  in  time  to 
completely  absorb  him.  He  never  asked  his 
sister  for  money,  but  she  spared  him  what 
she  could.  Was  not  that  one  cause  of  the 
shop  ?  Sometimes  he  looked  at  her  very 
wistfully  as  he  put  the  price  of  her  self-sacri 
fice  slowly  into  his  pocket,  and  vaguely  called 
up  a  feeble  ghost  of  his  purpose  to  more  than 
make  things  up  to  her  by  and  by.  But  when 
his  pockets  clung  together  for  very  leanness, 
and  some  longed-for  pile  of  dusty  volumes 
was  slipping  out  of  his  grasp  with  every 
hour,  he  even  found  himself  greedily  gazing 
at  the  shining  silver  tea-service  of  which  he 
and  Miss  Esther  were  the  sole  heirs.  Packed 
away  in  the  sideboard  were  useless  porrin- 


246  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

gers  and  tankards  —  yes,  he  was  quite  capa 
ble  of  selling  the  whole  of  the  Jaffrey  plate 
in  these  moments  of  anguish  and  limitation. 
He  was  a  book-miser  at  last.  It  was  a  mercy 
that  he  lived  in  Grafton,  for  the  vicinity  of 
book-stores  and  ragged  companies  of  vol 
umes  on  corner  stalls  of  the  great  towns 
would  either  have  made  him  mad  or  a  hard 
ened  offender  against  justice. 

As  the  years  slipped  by  he  gained  some 
little  reputation  as  a  scholar,  quite  unworth 
ily,  for  he  was  too  firmly  grafted  into  his 
position  as  idle  accumulator  and  reader  to 
exercise  his  stunted  powers  of  thought.  He 
was  only  a  personified  memory  with  no  gift 
at  combination  and  association ;  an  encyclo 
pedia,  a  very  rag-bag  of  true  and  worthless 
knowledge ;  and  the  easy  life  which  made  no 
continuous  demands  upon  him  seemed  to 
hold  no  inspiration  in  any  of  its  lights  or 
shadows.  The  library  slowly  grew,  the  man 
himself  really  dwindled,  yet  he  was  thought 
a  much  wiser  and  more  awesome  person  than 
the  resolute  and  gentle  sister  who  kept  her 
petty  shop  as  intently  as  that  famous  grand 
father  had  managed  his  shipping.  She  was 
secretly  glad  to  spend  what  energy  she  could 
upon  the  slow  little  business,  and  tried  to 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  247 

fancy  that  she  was  by  nature  a  business  wo 
man.  Yet  she  at  first  insisted  upon  the  old 
family  custom  of  reading  aloud,  and  so  upon 
sharing  as  much  of  her  brother's  evenings  as 
possible.  Sometimes  she  was  interrupted, 
but  as  a  rule  her  own  evening  leisure  was 
respected,  and  the  solitary  lamp  on  the  shop 
counter  hinted  that  no  errands  except  those 
of  urgent  necessity  were  expected  or  pro 
vided  for. 

If  the  brother  was  glad  that  their  mother 
had  not  lived  to  be  wounded  by  the  sound 
of  the  tinkling  shop-bell,  Miss  Jaffrey  was 
rejoiced  that  she  had  never  been  forced  to 
surrender  all  hope  of  her  son's  gaining  dis 
tinction.  But  toleration  and  good  breeding 
kept  a  harmonious  atmosphere  in  the  old 
house,  and  on  summer  Sundays,  when  there 
were  strangers  in  the  village,  admiring 
neighbors  still  pointed  out  Mr.  and  Miss 
Jaffrey  as  the  most  interesting  figures  in 
the  congregation. 

For  a  long  time  there  was  little  change  in 
the  quiet  old  village,  but  there  came  a  day 
when  everybody  acknowledged  that  Grafton 
was  waking  up.  It  has  already  been  hinted 
that  a  large  sum  of  money  was  left  in  trust 
for  the  building  of  a  public  library.  The 


248  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

old  academy,  well  endowed  and  famous  along 
the  line  of  its  earlier  history,  seemed  to  take 
a  new  lease  of  life,  and  as  in  days  of  the 
past,  a  successful  teacher  drew  round  him 
the  brightest  boys  and  girls  of  the  neigh 
boring  towns.  There  were  more  and  more 
people,  too,  who  discovered  the  beauties  of 
the  wide  tidal  river  and  its  wooded  banks ; 
and  from  the  neighboring  resorts  on  the  sea 
shore  near  by,  increasing  numbers  of  sum 
mer  idlers  came  inland  like  birds  of  passage 
to  linger  for  a  while  in  the  shade  of  the 
great  Graf  ton  elms.  The  time-honored  re 
pose  of  the  village  seemed  permanently 
broken,  and  not  the  least  attractive  figure 
was  this  stately  Miss  JafTrey  who  had 
achieved  the  dignity  of  self-sacrifice  in  will 
ingly  supporting  her  learned  brother.  It 
was  considered  a  true  romance  when  the  vil 
lage  people  discovered  this  aspect  of  the 
shopkeeping  through  the  help  of  others. 
They  were  delightfully  eager  to  enlarge  upon 
the  old-time  majesty  of  the  Jaffreys  and  the 
slow  succession  of  its  assailments.  Lookers- 
on  could  only  guess  at  the  self-denial  which 
made  it  possible  for  the  dear  lady  to  do  her 
part  in  giving  for  the  good  of  church  or 
state,  or  to  carry  forward,  even  in  simplest 


A   VILLAGE   SHOP.  249 

fashion  the  old-time  hospitalities  and  gen 
erosities  of  the  house.  But  what  she  gave 
she  gave  royally,  and  with  that  cheerfulness 
which  the  Lord  himself  loves.  The  bright 
young  people  were  a  great  pleasure  to  gray- 
haired,  dignified  Miss  Esther,  as  they  went 
flitting  about  the  streets  in  their  gay  gowns, 
or  lingered  in  her  shop  with  sweet  sympa 
thetic  looks.  Some  found  their  way  into  the 
parlor  and  learned  to  know  the  rest  of  the 
fine  old  house,  and  were  even  graciously  en 
tertained  at  tea  to  their  hearts'  delight  and 
admiration.  More  than  one  descendant  of 
the  house's  old  acquaintances  carried  away 
to  Boston  a  glowing  description  of  this  fine 
gentlewoman,  in  her  nobly  equipped  dwel 
ling,  and  the  pathetic  unworthy  business  of 
her  life.  The  brother  did  not  lose  charm 
from  the  fact  that  he  was  seldom  seen  and 
was  still  in  middle  life,  with  the  manly 
beauty  of  the  painted  Jaffreys  on  the  walls. 
But  as  winter  took  the  place  of  summer,  and 
these  gay  guests  disappeared  like  butterflies, 
the  village  seemed  more  familiar  again,  and 
as  if  it  had  turned  over  for  another  nap. 
The  walls  of  the  new  library  were  rising, 
Miss  Jaffrey  liked  to  hear  the  clink  of  the 
masons'  hammers,  and  one  day  thought  sor- 


250  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

rowfully  that  she  was  growing  old  and  there 
was  no  one  to  follow  herself  and  Leonard  in 
the  Jaffrey  house.  There  was  one  comfort, 
he  had  not  gathered  his'  books  for  nothing, 
she  would  urge  him  to  decide  to  leave  them 
to  the  town  by  and  by  when  Death  called 
him  away  for  his  sins  to  a  bookless  world. 
She  herself  had  not  been  worthy  the  name 
of  Jaffrey,  there  was  no  reason  why  anybody 
should  remember  her ;  but  she  had  kept  her 
house  generously  and  her  shop  honestly. 
"  Perhaps  I  had  to  be  punished  for  my 
pride,"  she  thought,  at  the  wistful  remem 
brance  of  a  proud  and  hopeful  girlhood. 
The  elder  ladies  of  Grafton  were  fond  of 
saying  to  each  other  with  gentle  emphasis, 
"  You  know,  Miss  Jaffrey  understands  what 
ladies  care  for !  "  This  was  the  gift  of  her 
ancestry  then  —  a  delicate  power  of  selecting 
linen,  cambric,  or  soft  ribbons  ?  Was  there, 
beside,  a  trained  capacity  and  usable  force 
which  some  persons  of  less  illustrious  de 
scent  found  themselves  without?  She  was 
the  chief  literary  authority  of  the  town, 
though  it  was  acknowledged  that  her  brother 
was  more  available  for  serious  questioning. 
The  old-fashioned  book-club  had  its  head 
quarters  in  the  shop,  and  the  best  talk  and 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  251 

best  influence  in  Grafton  resided  under  Miss 
Jaffrey's  roof,  —  in  truth  her  own  ladylike, 
apologetic  little  head-dress  thatched  it  in. 
Yet,  alas,  there  were  some  new  shops  now 
in  the  new  part  of  the  town.  Miss  Jaffrey 
had  a  mere  trifle  of  money  for  the  rainy  days 
of  her  fast  approaching  age,  and  yet  she 
had  been  careful  and  wise  and  self-denying 
all  the  way.  She  was  almost  proud  of  the 
bookworm  overhead  instead  of  being  indig 
nant  with  him;  she  never  reproached  her 
brother,  it  would  have  broken  her  heart  if 
he  had  gone  to  shopkeeping.  "Yes,  Leon 
ard  is  a  man  of  letters,"  she  used  to  say 
with  smiling  indulgence.  "  One  cannot  ex 
pect  business  gifts  in  him  with  all  the  rest." 
She  began  to  dream  now  of  his  making  a 
proper  marriage.  It  was  partly  for  this  that 

she  planned  her  summer  tea-parties. 

« 

That  winter  brought  new  problems. 
Betty  was  really  old,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  fell  ill.  Miss  Jaffrey  overworked 
herself  and  had  to  close  the  shop  for  many 
days  together,  and  at  last  hired  an  inade 
quate  young  girl  to  tend  it  in  her  place  in 
order  to  serve  Betty,  herself.  But  Betty 
was  only  enraged  at  such  officiousness,  and 


252  A   VILLAGE  SHOP. 

the  shop  was  quickly  put  into  dire  disorder. 
Miss  Jaff  rey  was  in  real  distress  for  a  time ; 
but  after  a  while  the  clouds  blew  over,  and 
she  was  left  with  a  miserable  fear  of  the 
repetition  of  such  dark  days.  Several  of  her 
best  patrons  and  most  valued  friends  had 
died  ;  time  was  fast  assailing  her  security  as 
a  business  woman.  What  had  she  to  look 
forward  to  but  dependent  poverty,  the  sharp 
est  sorrow  that  old  age  can  bring  to  a 
woman  of  her  nature.  Yet  Leonard  did 
not  suspect  these  anxieties.  He  ate  his  me 
thodical  breakfast  and  took  his  methodical 
walk  and  made  his  accurate  notes  in  a 
clerkly  hand,  catalogued  and  re-catalogued 
his  books,  and  lived  his  peaceful  life. 
Sometimes  he  noticed  that  his  sister  had 
changed  in  outward  looks,  but  it  never  oc 
curred  to  him  to  ask  the  reason.  They 
walked  into  church  on  Sunday  with  widely 
different  feelings  —  the  woman's  heart  cry 
ing  for  help  and,  for  the  second  time,  driven 
to  despair  ;  the  man  comfortable,  unappre 
hensive,  and  ready  to  quibble  with  the  cler 
gyman  about  the  emphasis  of  a  Greek  word 
or  incorrect  quotation  from  one  of  the  early 
fathers.  Miss  Jaff  rey  climbed  to  the  garret 
once  to  look  at  a  disused  set  of  heavy  ma- 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  253 

hogany  chairs ;  if  worst  came  to  worst,  she 
would  write  presently  to  a  young  summer 
friend  who  had  delicately  suggested  her  ar 
dent  desire  to  buy  such  fine  old  furniture. 
Leonard  would  not  miss  the  chairs.  As 
they  sat  opposite  each  other  at  tea-time, 
Leonard  being  also  a  silent  sufferer  for 
more  books,  the  tea-urn  winked  and  blinked 
at  first  one  and  then  the  other,  as  if  con 
scious  of  its  solid  worth.  It  was  secure  in 
the  belief  that  its  owners  were  capable  of 
starving  before  their  empty  plates  rather 
than  sell  it  to  a  stranger. 

V. 

One  winter  day  a  man  came  driving 
slowly  up  the  wide  Grafton  street  under  the 
leafless  branches  of  the  elms.  For  some 
time  before  there *had  been  no  other  passer 
by,  and  the  people  who  sat  at  their  windows 
looked  out  with  mingled  relief  and  curiosity 
at  the  small  old-fashioned  sleigh  and  heavy, 
slow-stepping  horse.  It  was  certainly  very 
dull  in  Grafton  in  winter  weather,  and  in  a 
cold  clear  day  like  this  when  the  snow  on 
the  house  roofs  refused  to  melt,  as  every  one 
said,  "  in  the  eye  of  the  sun,"  there  was  little 


254  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

going  abroad.  Several  house-bound  women, 
eager  for  something  new  to  think  about, 
flattened  their  foreheads  against  the  cold 
window  panes  to  see  where  John  Grant 
was  going.  He  was  a  rich  farmer  from  a 
comfortable  home  of  his  own  two  or  three 
miles  below  on  the  river  shore,  a  widower 
these  dozen  years,  and  well  known  in  the 
village. 

"  He 's  turniii'  up  by  Miss  Jaffrey's 
shop,"  said  one  observer.  "  I  hope  he 's 
goin'  to  buy  her  out,  I  'm  sure.  Time  was 
that  most  all  the  farmer's  folks  used  to 
trade  with  her,  but  they  've  been  tolled  off  to 
the  new  stores  down  by  the  factory,  and  she 
must  find  it  dreadful  poor  pickin'.  Hard, 
ain't  it  ?  but  then  she  might  make  some  ef 
fort  to  keep  up  with  the  times,  and  get  some 
sort  o'  fancy  wares." 

Miss  Jaffrey  herself  was  sitting  in  her 
sunny  parlor  trying  to  busy  herself  with 
some  mending ;  there  was  little  making  to  do 
now,  the  year  round.  She  gladly  saw  John 
Grant  stop  and  fasten  his  horse,  then  a 
shadow  dimmed  her  eyes  as  she  laid  down 
her  work  and  went  toward  the  shop  to  meet 
him.  There  was  no  fire  there  ;  for  three 
days  she  had  done  almost  no  business,  and 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  255 

she  could  not  waste  the  firewood.  Brief 
errands  could  be  done  in  spite  of  the  cold ; 
she  would  trust  to  the  forbearance  of  her 
customers,  and  she  had  just  been  almost 
congratulating  herself  that  no  one  had  yet 
appeared.  In  mild  weather  the  place  of 
business  could  easily  be  warmed  by  the  par 
lor  fire,  but  John  Grant  might  be  chilled 
after  his  drive.  With  ready  hospitality  she 
only  waited  until  he  had  knocked  the  last 
lump  of  snow  off  his  sturdy  boots  and  shut 
the  shop  door  behind  him,  before  she  asked 
him  to  come  into  the  parlor  to  warm  him 
self. 

The  kindly  pitying  heart  of  the  man  grew 
very  sad  as  he  looked  at  his  hostess ;  stand 
ing  before  her  half-empty  shelves,  he  hesi 
tated  a  minute  as  if  it  might  be  kinder  to 
ignore  the  cold,  then  he  saw  how  thin  and 
gray  she  looked,  for  the  quaint,  three-cor 
nered  shawl  round  her  thin  shoulders  was  not 
preventing  one  shiver  after  another.  He  fol 
lowed  her  somewhat  bashfully  into  the  next 
room  and  unbuttoned  his  coat  without  speak 
ing,  though  he  bowed  with  sober  dignity  as 
Miss  Jaffrey  placed  a  chair  for  him  before 
the  Franklin  stove.  It  was  quite  another 
atmosphere  in  every  respect  from  that  in  the 


256  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

shop,  but  while  the  eyes  of  the  portraits  and 
the  presence  of  a  lady  were  trying  at  first  to 
his  composure,  they  quickly  confirmed  him 
in  his  secret  purpose. 

"  I  called  to  see  you  on  a  little  private 
business,  Miss  Jaffrey,"  said  good,  sensible 
John  Grant,  after  they  had  decorously  con 
sidered  the  weather.  "  I  am  going  to  ask 
a  great  favor  at  your  hands."  Miss  Jaffrey 
looked  anxious  at  first,  then  relieved.  The 
Jaffreys  liked  to  grant  favors  much  better 
than  to  receive  them,  and  she  felt  strangely 
at  the  world's  mercy  in  these  days. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  if  I  can  do  anything 
to  serve  you,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  think  I  mean  to  pre 
sume  too  far,"  the  plain  man  said,  with  grave 
deference,  and  almost  courtesy,  entirely  differ 
ent  from  his  cheerful  farmer's  manner.  "  You 
know  that  I  have  only  one  girl  at  home  ? 
She  was  the  baby  when  her  mother  died,  a 
little  child  following  me  about,  hardly  above 
my  knee,  and  I  could  n't  seem  to  do  without 
her  for  long  at  a  time,  so  I  have  n't  taken 
the  thought  I  should  about  her  education  till 
here  she  is  a  young  woman.  She  has  taken 
what  schooling  she  could  get  in  our  district, 
and  she  's  a  great  hand  for  story-books,  reads 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  257 

every  tiling  she  can  get.  And  I  see  all  too 
plain  that  she  shows  some  lack  of  woman's 
care.  I  'm  well  enough  off  to  send  her  to 
some  o'  the  smart  boarding  schools,  but  I 
can't  seem  to  make  up  my  mind  to  it.  Some 
young  fellow '11  be  picking  her  off," — -this 
with  a  wise  twinkle  of  his  eye  at  Miss  Jaf- 
frey,  —  "  but  I  mean  to  keep  her  while  I  can. 
Now,  there  's  this  good  teacher  at  the  acad 
emy  and  all  the  chance  she  really  needs.  If 
you  could  see  your  way  to  taking  her  and 
giving  her  a  little  good  advice  and  letting 
her  have  the  profit  of  seeing  how  a  lady  like 
you  behaves  herself,  I  should  be  —  well,  more 
obliged  to  you  than  I  've  got  words  to  say." 
There  was  a  moment  of  silence  before  Miss 
Jaffrey  gave  her  answer.  The  speaker  grew 
a  little  anxious,  and  feared  that  he  had  been, 
as  he  first  suggested,  presuming.  There  had 
long  been  cordial  relations  between  the  Jaf- 
freys  and  the  farm  by  the  river.  It  was  his 
grandmother's  pride  to  tell  how  the  Madam 
Jaffrey  of  her  day  brought .  gay  parties  to 
eat  strawberries  and  cream,  and  had  once 
done  the  gracious  favor  of  showins:  all  her 

O  O 

own  treasures  of  china  to  the  admiring 
farmer's  wife.  Courtesy  and  mutual  regard 
and  dependence  there  had  always  been,  but 


258  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

this  sort  of  equality,  never;  and  yet  the 
shop  and  the  unstemmed  flood  of  poverty 
and  anxiety  remained.  The  petitioner  had 
truly  meant  a  kindness  to  Miss  Jaffrey  as 
well  as  a  favor  to  himself ;  his  pretty  Nelly 
was  good  enough  for  any  household. 

Miss  Jaffrey  turned  from  the  half-moon 
table  where  she  had  been  fingering  her  sew 
ing  work  in  an  aimless  fashion.  "  I  should 
indeed  be  very  glad  to  have  her  come,  if  " 
shyly,  "you  think  she  will  be  contented. 
We  are  a  sober  pair,  my  brother  and  I,  but 
he  will  be  able  to  aid  with  her  studies.  I 
will  not  try  to  conceal  from  you  that  it  will 
be  a  great  help  to  me ;  I  have  been  anxious 
lately  about"  —  but  the  sentence  was  never 
ended.  "  She  has  a  sweet  young  face." 

The  father's  heart  was  quickly  touched. 
He  could  hardly  have  told  why  the  simple 
occasion  affected  him  so  much.  He  had  al 
ready  noticed  that  the  fire  was  made  of  chilly 
bits  of  the  old  pear-trees  which  had  been 
broken  by  winter  winds,  and  determined 
to  send  an  honest  load  of  his  own  whole 
hearted  rock-maple  wood  for  Nelly's  benefit 
as  well  as  the  Jaffreys'.  The  certainty  of 
the  old  house's  poverty,  and  an  empty  cellar 
beneath  made  him  warmly  resolve  to  provi- 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  259 

sion  it  as  for  a  siege.  All  his  generous  lav- 
ishness  should  work  its  will.  Miss  Jaffrey's 
grandfather,  the  judge,  had  saved  his  own 
grandfather  from  ruin,  and  he  ought  to  have 
been  seeing  what  he  could  do  for  this  poor 
lady  in  her  pinched  housekeeping.  It  was 
hard  to  come  down  from  a  delightful  level  of 
talk  about  Nelly's  needs  and  prospects  and 
insistence  upon  paying  a  good  price  for  board 
in  view  of  her  rare  advantages,  but  at  last, 
when  the  interview  was  ended,  John  Grant 
bought  Miss  Jaffrey's  entire  stock  of  fine 
handkerchiefs  byway  of  a  gift  for  his  daugh 
ter.  It  was  such  bleak  weather  in  the  shop 
that  he  tried  to  shorten  the  process  of  sale 
by  stuffing  them  into  his  deep  coat  pocket, 
but  Miss  Jaffrey  insisted  upon  wrapping 
them  with  proper  precision  and  figuring 
their  cost  on  a  bit  of  paper  which  she  would 
have  him  audit  with  care.  Her  own  finders 

O 

stiffened  all  too  easily  at  the  least  chill. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  Miss  Jaffrey  went 
hungry  now  and  then  to  make  her  scanty 
larder  hold  out  the  longer  ?  Oh,  good  John 
Grant,  you  were  an  angel  that  day,  in  dis 
guise  of  your  worn  fur  cap  and  warm,  faded 
old  coat  with  its  big  buttons  !  And  Miss 
Jaffrey  sat  in  the  winter  sunshine  and  cried 


260  A   VILLAGE  SHOP. 

as  the  old  sleigh  bells  jingled  away  again 
out  of  hearing.  Now  she  had  surely  seen 
her  darkest  day,  and  things  could  never  be 
so  hard  and  trying  again. 

In  the  twilight  brother  Leonard  came 
down,  unusually  fretful,  because  his  lamp 
held  no  oil,  and  he  had  been  obliged  to  lay 
by  his  work.  "  Betty  told  me  that  we  had 
no  more,  but  I  could  not  send  for  any,"  said 
the  patient  sister.  "I  have  a  little  money 
now,  however ;  Mr.  Grant  has  been  a  good 
customer." 

"  I  do  not  see  any  objection,"  Leonard 
Jaffrey  gave  kind  assurance,  after  the  new 
plan  had  been  detailed  with  not  a  little  ap 
prehension.  "  Nelly  Grant  has  a  pretty  face 
like  a  spring  flower,"  he  added,  with  unex 
pected  sentiment,  this  elderly  bookworm 
whom  nobody  suspected  of  knowing  one 
young  parishioner  from  another  in  the  old 
Grafton  church. 

Betty  alone  was  daunted  at  the  prospect. 
"There's  no  knowing  what  work  she  and 
her  mates  will  make  trapesing  through  the 
house,"  the  bent  old  woman  grumbled.  "  I 
thought  't  was  time  to  end  this  playin'  of 
keepin'  shop,"  she  added  to  herself  later. 
"  We  should  all  have  starved  pretty  soon, 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  261 

like  a  nest  of  frozen  mice.  An'  see  if  I 
don't  hint  round  an'  spy  if  they  ain't  got 
some  o'  them  big  pippin  apples  at  the  farm, 
now,  that  old  madam  used  never  to  be  with 
out.  They  do  make  proper  dumplings  and 
sliced  pies." 


VI. 

Mr.  Leonard  Jaffrey  stood  behind  a  closed 
upper  window  one  rainy  April  day,  indulg 
ing  himself  in  a  fit  of  complete  idleness. 
His  sister  still  regarded  him  as  a  youngish 
man,  but  he  had  long  since  passed  the  time 
when  one  could  justly  call  him  anything  but 
middle-aged.  There  was  a  becoming  lustre 
of  whitening  locks  against  the  original  dark 
brown  of  his  hair,  and  his  complexion  was 
like  a  girl's  in  its  freshness  and  unmanly  ab 
sence  of  any  traces  of  exposure  to  wind  and 
weather.  Student  life  had  evidently  agreed 
with  his  constitution  of  body  as  well  as  mind. 
He  smiled  placidly  as  he  looked  out  across 
the  brown-budded  pear-trees,  and  noted  the 
hour  on  the  steeple  clock  of  the  old  acad 
emy.  Everywhere  in  Grafton  the  Jaffreys 
might  be  reminded  of  their  ancestors,  for 
the  needs  of  church  and  state  had  always 


262  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

been  liberally  considered  as  long  as  there 
was  any  money  to  give.  Judge  Jaffrey  had 
handsomely  endowed  the  ancient  parish,  and 
had  given  the  very  steeple  clock  itself  to 
which  his  great-grandson  now  listened  as  it 
struck  three.  It  seemed  a  fitting  return  of 
such  favors  on  the  part  of  the  family  that  a 
poor  boy  who  had  grown  rich  in  the  western 
country  should  have  chosen  a  public  library 
as  his  monument.  Grafton  as  a  town  was 
not  especially  dependent  upon  literature,  but 
when  the  last  of  the  Jaffreys  proved  to  be 
a  scholar,  public  notice  was  naturally  taken 
of  it,  and  the  old-time  favors  would  now  be 
suitably  returned.  But  the  last  of  the  Jaf 
freys  gave  the  question  no  definite  thought  as 
he  cast  a  side  wise  glance  at  the  new  library's 
roof,  arid  contemptuously  reminded  himself 
that  there  would  probably  never  be  a  collec 
tion  of  books  under  it  which  would  afford 
him  much  interest.  Trivial  modern  volumes 
of  transient  worth  were  all  -that  his  fellow- 
townspeople  might  be  expected  to  select.  It 
did  not  naturally  occur  to  this  learned  gen 
tleman  that  his  own  duty  lay  in  the  Direction 
of  wise  counsel  and  devoted  interest ;  to  him 
the  practical  affairs  of  life  or  any  sense  of 
personal  obligation  were  as  foreign  as  the 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  263 

problems  of  astronomy  to  a  blind  man. 
Through  the  recent  struggles  of  his  own 
family  life,  through  years  and  years  while 
Miss  Jaffrey  had  crept  painfully  along  the 
narrow  path  between  want  and  tolerable 
comfort,  he  had  been  as  unconscious  of  her 
makeshifts  and  anxieties  as  if  he  had  been 
an  Indian  brave  whose  round-shouldered 
squaw  existed  for  nothing  but  to  carry  tent- 
poles  on  her  back,  and  to  provide  their  neces 
sary  food.  Yet  he  was  sublimely  conscious 
of  much  tenderness  of  heart,  and  proper  in 
terest  in  the  human  race.  His  world  was  a 
book  world,  not  peopled  with  material  shapes. 
While  he  stood  at  the  window  one  could  not 
help  being  struck  by  the  neatness  and  quaint- 
ness  of  his  attire,  for  the  clothes  he  wore  ex 
pressed  a  man  who  rightfully  belonged  to  an 
earlier  generation.  He  might  have  been  the 

O  O 

despair  of  a  fashionable  tailor,  with  that  al 
most  instantaneous  process  of  assimilating  his 
garments  to  the  out-of-date  spirit  underneath. 
There  was  an  odor  of  old  leather  books  about 
his  overcoat  when  he  stood  meekly  in  the 
Graf  tor  post-office,  or  conscientiously  drifted 
with  the  crowd  toward  the  place  of  voting 
on  town  meeting  days.  As  one  glanced 
about  the  room  upon  which  his  back  was 


264  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

turned  that  cloudy  afternoon,  it  presented  a 
curious  appearance,  and  it  was  impossible 
not  to  be  reminded  of  certain  shell  -  fish 
whose  covering  thickens  with  age.  No  won 
der  that  a  suggestion  of  brown  leather  bind 
ings  followed  him  in  his  rare  progresses  into 
the  outer  world,  for  here  there  were  hun 
dreds  shelved  in  crowded  lines,  piled  in  small 
toppling  precipices  against  the  wainscoted 
walls,  and  stacked  in  sliding  hillocks  here 
and  there  on  the  uncarpeted  floor.  Leonard 
Jaffrey  himself  could  find  his  way  among 
them,  even  in  the  dark,  like  a  soft-pawed 
pussy  cat ;  the  noise  of  a  fallen  book  was  the 
only  sound  that  roused  his  anger.  There 
was  apparent  danger  for  a  stray  visitor,  as 
if  in  time  this  floor  and  walls  of  experienced 
volumes  would  suddenly  close  in  and  stifle 
the  room's  occupant.  The  mahogany  bed 
stead  was  furnished  with  a  wooden  canopy 
draped  with  faded  blue  damask,  and  armful 
after  armful  of  books,  for  which  there  was 
no  other  lodging,  had  been  stowed  away  on 
the  top,  next  the  ceiling.  The  apparent 
method  of  reaching  them  at  such  an  incon 
venient  height  was  by  climbing  the  slender, 
carved  mahogany  posts,  but  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  fancy  the  dignified  owner  sliding 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  265 

carefully  down  to  the  floor  after  a  season  of 
reference  and  review  of  his  celestial  authors. 
A  discerning  eye  might  have  shrewdly  no 
ticed  one  evil  -  disposed  work  which  had 
slipped  out  from  its  pile  on  the  burdened 
tester  until  it  seemed  to  be  wickedly  just 
holding  itself  back  until  it  could  drop  fa 
tally  upon  Mr.  Jaffrey's  head  just  as  he  in 
tended  to  retire  for  the  niefht.  There  was 

C5 

truly  something  evil  in  the  way  it  bravely 
held  its  dangerous  weight  high  in  air,  or 
risked  the  possibility  of  gathering  more  dust. 
The  scholar  at  the  window  leaned  closer 
against  the  sash  as  if  something  attracted 
his  attention.  Those  who  were  quick  enough 
to  look  over  his  shoulder  could  have  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  young  girl  who  went  with 
flitting  step  along  the  sidewalk  next  the  old 
garden.  The  fence  was  unfortunately  of 
solid  boarding,  and  was  far  from  being  trans 
parent,  even  after  many  years  of  necessary 
wear  and  moss  growing.  At  the  top  it  was  cut 
in  sharp  points,  and  the  girlish  face  moved 
quickly  past  in  full  view.  The  watcher 
drew  back  into  the  shelter  of  the  window 
shutter,  but  his  face  had  noticeably  bright 
ened.  As  he  went  back  to  his  seat  beside 
the  table  which  held  his  writing  materials, 


266  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

it  was  impossible  to  resist  the  suspicion  that 
this  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  seen 
Nelly  Grant  on  her  way  home  from  her  af 
ternoon  lessons  at  the  academy. 

A  few  moments  later  there  was  heard  the 
familiar  groaning  creak  of  the  old  front 
door,  and  the  noise  of  its  decided  closing. 
Mr.  Leonard  Jaffrey  half  rose  from  his 
wooden  arm-chair,  which  was  made  altogether 
of  serviceable  slender  rungs,  then  he  regret 
fully  sank  back  again  with  an  almost  bashful 
look  upon  his  face.  He  waited  listening  in 
tently,  but  he  was  not  gratified  by  the  sound 
of  approaching  footsteps.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  mist  which  had  followed  an  earlier  rain 
were  making  the  old  bedroom-library  al 
most  too  dark  and  dismal  to  be  borne,  and 
he  drummed  on  the  table  fretfully  with  his 
familiar  penholder. 

Miss  Jaffrey  greeted  her  young  house 
mate  with  a  cordial  smile  of  welcome  as  she 
came  in,  rosy  and  smiling,  from  the  street. 
Nelly  was  very  much  of  a  little  lady,  and, 
with  the  help  of  numerous  visits  to  the 
farm,  had  managed  to  be  perfectly  happy  in 
the  imposing  Jaffrey  house.  She  inquired 
now  whether  her  father  had  made  his  ap 
pearance  while  she  had  been  at  school,  and 


A   VILLAGE  SHOP.  267 

heard  that  nothing  had  been  seen  of  him 
with  hardly  a  shade  of  disappointment.  "  I 
told  him  to  stop  for  me  if  he  came  over  this 
afternoon,"  she  explained ;"  but  I  don't  be 
lieve  he  cares  about  bringing  me  back  so 
early  in  the  morning  in  this  rainy  weather." 
She  was  kneeling  on  the  window-seat  and 
looking  eagerly  up  and  down  the  deserted 
street.  "  You  must  go  and  take  off  your 
damp  clothes,"  advised  Miss  Jaffrey  quietly. 
"  I  don't  want  to  send  you  home  with  a 
cold ; "  but  the  healthy  country-girl  only 
laughed,  and  made  no  other  reply.  "  What 
do  the  school -girls  want  with  so  much  of 
that  narrow  tape  ?  "  asked  the  elder  woman 
timidly  ;  for  Nelly  had  fallen  into  a  deep 
revery,  as  she  still  knelt  in  the  window. 

"  Oh,  it 's  a  notion  about  a  kind  of  stiff 
little  trimming ;  they  sew  it  together  in 
pointed  patterns.  I  'm  sure  I  never  should 
have  patience  to  do  it.  Why,  have  they 
been  here  for  some  ? "  asked  the  young 
lodger  with  eager  interest ;  for  she  had 
already  learned  to  share  in  the  satisfaction 
that  followed  a  day  of  good  sales. 

"  Yes,  they  came  like  a  flock  of  pigeons 
an  hour  or  two  ago,"  answered  Miss  Jaf- 
f rey.  "  I  happened  to  have  a  box  full  o£ 


268  A   VILLAGE  SHOP. 

narrow  tapes  put  aside,  of  the  very  best 
quality  too,  and  they  pounced  upon  them 
gladly.  I  think  I  have  had  those  little  tapes 
ever  since  I  kept  the  shop  at  all "  —  she 
added  by  way  of  reminiscence  —  "  dear,  dear ! 
how  many  years  it  has  been  now,  yet  I  some 
how  always  think  of  it  as  a  new  thing,  and 
the  bell  always  startles  me  a  little." 

"  I  suppose  it  has  been  a  good  deal  of 
company  to  you,"  replied  Nelly  with  a 
vagueness  in  her  tone  that  implied  her  in 
tention  of  changing  the  subject.  "  I  'in  so 
confused  about  my  mental  philosophy  lesson 
Miss  Jaffrey,"  she  announced  with  sudden 
bravery.  "  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Leonard  would 
explain  it  a  little  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  would  do  as  well  to  wait 
until  the  evening  now,"  the  mistress  an 
swered  respectfully.  "  He  never  likes  to  be 
interrupted." 

"  I  must  study  my  Latin  then,"  said  the 
girl,  with  something  like  a  pout.  "  He  always 
says  that  I  may  come  up  at  any  time,  and 
if  he  is  too  busy  he  will  say  so.  I  don't  see 
any  sense  in  mental  philosophy,  any  way. 
I  like  things  that  belong  to  out-of-doors." 

44  I  dare  say  you  are  right  about  asking 
him  now,"  said  Miss  Jaffrey  after  a  mo- 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  269 

ment's  pause.  Her  brother's  learned  exposi 
tion  of  the  Baconian  philosophy  the  evening 
before  in  that  pleasant  parlor  had  been  to 
her  very  dull  and  unrewarding,  but  she  was 
only  a  plain,  uninstructed  woman  whose 
choice  of  reading  ranged  through  the  hum 
bler  level  of  fiction  rather  than  among  the 
mandates  of  the  philosophers.  The  young 
girl  gathered  her  books  with  alacrity  and 
went  up  the  wide  hall-staircase.  There  was 
one  step  that  announced  her  coming  by  a 
peculiar  creaking  sound,  and  when  Leonard 
Jaffrey  heard  it,  he  fairly  ran  to  open  his 
door. 

Miss  Jaffrey  was  possessed  by  an  unusual 
spirit  of  thankfulness  when  she  was  again 
left  alone.  Life  had  been  so  much  easier 
for  them  all  since  Nelly  Grant  became  a 
member  of  the  household;  they  all  seemed 
revivified  by  her  fresh  young  life.  She  was 
a  mannerly  child,  surely,  and  had  been  so 
considerate  about  making  extra  trouble,  and 
forcing  her  own  companions  and  personal 
concerns  into  undue  prominence.  It  was 
good  for  Leonard  to  have  this  new  interest 
to  draw  him  away  from  his  books.  He 
really  had  seemed  in  excellent  spirits  of  late, 
and  lost  the  elderly  look  that  he  had  begun 


270  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

to  wear.  "  What  an  advantage  his  society 
is  to  that  girl  who  knows  nothing  of  the 
world ! "  thought  the  admiring  sister  as  she 
creased  down  the  edges  of  a  collar.  Leonard 
had  really  for  once  noticed  that  he  needed  a 
new  article  of  raiment,  and  had  even  advised 
a  slight  modernizing  change  in  the  old  collar 
pattern.  Dear,  unworldly  Miss  Esther  Jaf- 
frey  —  where  were  your  woman's  wits ! 

In  spite  of  Leonard's  variation  and  de 
flection  from  his  sister's  ideal  of  the  last  of 
the  Jaffreys,  she  still  looked  forward  con 
fidently  to  some  less  and  less  possible  change. 
In  one  of  the  great  camphor-wood  packing 
chests  lay  a  silk  Geneva  gown  of  which  the 
folds  grew  sharper  and  the  texture  more 
limp  year  by  year,  but  Miss  Jaffrey  touched 
it  tenderly  every  spring  and  fall  in  her 
careful  housekeeping  as  if  the  day  might 
still  come  when  Leonard  would  soberly  deck 
himself  in  the  ancestral  garment.  But  the 
Geneva  gown  had  long  ago  been  too  narrow 
for  his  plump  back ;  it  was  cut  for  a  slen 
der,  dutiful  ascetic. 

Sometimes  Miss  Jaffrey  folded  her  hands 
in  her  lap  and  looked  at  her  brother  with 
pleased  wonder  at  his  vast  learning.  She 
tried  to  make  it  real  to  herself  that  he  could 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  271 

read  Greek  and  Hebrew  and  was  way-wise 
in  the  most  perplexing  by-paths  of  ancient 
history.  She  was  blessed  with  the  gift  of 
reverence,  was  Miss  Jaffrey,  like  many  an 
other  woman  of  her  generation.  She  would 
have  found  it  convenient  if  Leonard  could 
have  bestirred  his  feeble  muscles  enough  to 
drive  a  nail  straight  or  grapple  with  a  rusty 
screw,  but  she  never  reproached  him,  and 
learned  to  use  a  hammer  herself  instead. 
With  Nelly  Grant's  veneration  for  the 
scholar,  her  own  pride  and  pleasure  bloomed 
afresh.  She  was  thankful  to  have  her 
brother  get  a  glimpse  of  fresh  young  life; 
it  was  in  every  way  desirable  to  give  him  a 
little  change  from  his  books  and  creaking 
pen. 

It  was  plain  that  Mr.  Leonard  Jaffrey 
himself  was  by  no  means  averse  to  such  re 
freshment.  He  became  unwontedly  agree 
able,  and  lost  a  good  deal  of  the  dull  ex 
pression  of  countenance  and  heaviness  of 
motion  which  were  the  result  of  a  good  ap 
petite  and  dangerous  lack  of  exercise.  As 
the  spring  days  grew  longer  and  brighter, 
and  the  snow  disappeared  and  the  early 
frogs  piped  loud  and  clear  in  the  river 
marshes,  Nelly  besought  her  tutor  and  gov- 


272  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

ernor  to  take  a  walk  after  tea  down  the 
river  road.  She  wanted  to  talk  about  her 
lessons,  she  said,  and  she  hated  to  be  shut 
up  in  the  house  all  the  time,  now  that  the 
pleasant  weather  had  come.  It  was  such 
tiresome  work  studying,  but  she  liked  to 
have  people  tell  her  things  that  one  ought 
to  know.  And  Mr.  Jaffrey  amiably  ac 
cepted  her  invitation,  and  took  a  stalwart 
ancestral  walking  stick  from  behind  the  hall 
door,  smiling  all  the  time  at  Nelly's  girlish 
opinions  of  life. 

Somebody  jingled  the  shop  door-bell  im 
patiently  for  the  second  time  and  scuffed 
her  feet  about  on  the  clean  floor,  and  Miss 
Jaffrey  obeyed  the  summons  as  if  she  were 
in  a  dream.  She  had  watched  the  two  fig 
ures  depart  up  the  street  under  the  budding 
elms  with  a  strange  feeling  of  bewilderment, 
as  if  the  air  she  breathed  there  at  the  par 
lor  window  held  a  kind  of  dull  intoxication. 
She  was  vaguely  afraid  that  poor  little 
Nelly  might  grow  over  -  fond  of  her  stately 
companion,  but  the  fear  was  driven  away 
during  an  interview  with  a  loquacious  cus 
tomer.  Leonard  would  gravely  discourage 
any  silly  feeling  that  a  young  girl  might 
have.  Miss  Jaffrey  smiled ;  for  herself  she 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  273 

would  as  soon  fall  in  love  with  her  brother's 
great  dictionary  as  with  himself.  With  all 
his  worth,  he  was  not  her  idea  of  a  lover  — 
and  the  dear  soul  blushed  as  if  she  were  as 
young  at  heart  as  Nelly  herself.  Besides, 
the  Jaffrey  dignities  sailed  as  high  as  the 
moon  over  the  head  of  society  in  general, 
and  Nelly  did  not  even  belong  to  Graf  ton 
society,  dear  fresh-faced  little  country-girl ! 
The  shop-bell  jingled  again  and  again.  All 
feminine  Grafton  seemed  to  be  in  need  of 
pins  and  needles.  One  or  two  of  the  women 
who  lived  along  the  street  said  meaningly 
that  they  had  seen  Miss  Jaffrey's  brother 
go  by  a  little  while  before.  But  Miss  Jaf 
frey  responded  with  very  little  interest,  as 
she  counted  out  change  or  buttons  for  her 
curious  customers.  At  that  moment  the 
scholar  and  his  young  admirer  were  strolling 
in  the  odorous  dampness  beside  a  long  row 
of  willows  made  shadowy  by  the  twilight. 
"  I  get  into  such  a  hurry  for  the  flowers  to 
come  at  this  time  of  the  year,"  said  the  girl 
impulsively.  "  To  my  thought  there  is  no 
flower  so  sweet  as  a  youthful  face,"  said  Mr. 
Leonard  Jaffrey.  "  You  have  made  a  con 
stant  spring  in  our  quiet  lives."  And  Nelly 
blushed  as  bright  as  any  rose  of  the  June 
for  which  she  was  waiting. 


274  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

A  spirit  of  eager  youth  drove  away  all  the 
shadows  and  haunting  ghosts  from  the  Jaf- 
f  rey  house  in  that  bright  May  weather.  The 
young  girls  of  the  academy  flitted  in  and 
out  of  the  doorway,  at  first  awed  by  the  at 
mosphere  of  stateliness  and  fading  grandeur 
so  foreign  to  their  more  prosaic  modern 
lives.  Nelly  was  very  popular  among  her 
classmates,  and  had  a  way  of  asking  them  to 
the  farm  by  twos  and  threes  to  spend  the 
Saturdays  and  holidays  of  term  time.  They 
felt  much  more  at  their  ease  in  such  sur 
roundings,  and  secretly  admired  their  hostess 
because  she  was  so  completely  unawed  and 
at  home  with  severe  Miss  Jaffrey  and  her 
hermit  brother.  Miss  Jaffrey  was  patient 
and  affable  in  her  place  of  business,  but  it 
was  quite  another  matter  when  she  rose  to 
receive  you  in  her  parlor  with  that  grand 
manner  and  simple  welcome.  The  old  house 
was  always  pleasant  in  the  spring,  and  its 
mistress  now  found  herself  unusually  cheer 
ful  and  hopeful.  She  hardly  dared  to  look 
forward  to  the  time  when  her  young  house 
mate  must  disappear,  not  only  with  her  gay 
young  train,  but  with  her  generous  contri 
bution  to  the  slender  revenues  of  the  house 
keeping.  There  was  a  delightful  reminis- 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  275 

cence  of  the  past  in  all  the  intercourse  with 
the  farm.  John  Grant  himself  had  been 
reared  in  all  the  ancient  spirit  of  respect 
and  even  reverence  for  the  Jaffreys,  and 
never  ceased  to  show  it  or  to  acknowledge 
Miss  Esther's  kindness  and  condescension 
to  Nelly.  But  he  had  a  great  respect  for 
the  Grants,  too,  and  looked  upon  them  as 
people  who  never  need  be  ashamed  of  them 
selves  or  their  forefathers  in  any  company, 
being  people  who  paid  their  debts  and  did 
their  duty  in  the  place  to  which  it  had 
pleased  God  to  call  them.  And  John  Grant 
the  rich  farmer  and  honest  selectman  of 
Grafton  was  as  proud  of  his  pretty  girl  as  if 
she  were  a  princess.  He  gave  himself  great 
credit  for  having  hit  on  the  best  of  all  plans 
for  bringing  her  social  gain  and  pleasure  in 
her  last  year  at  school.  He  was  as  fond  of 
the  old  place  as  any  man  could  be  of  his 
home,  and  hated  the  thought  of  leaving  it 
for  a  night ;  but  in  the  early  autumn,  after 
the  crops  were  under  cover,  he  meant  to  take 
Nelly  a  journey  to  New  York,  perhaps  even 
to  Washington  and  Mount  Vernon,  that 
Mecca  of  every  old-fashioned  American's 
pilgrimage.  Once  he  was  for  a  moment 
possessed  of  a  glowing  thought  that  it  would 


276  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

be  well  to  invite  Miss  Esther  Jaffrey  to 
make  one  of  this  adventurous  party,  but  his 
good  judgment  rebelled.  That  would  be 
taking  a  social  liberty  :  with  whatever  ap 
preciation  of  kindness,  Miss  Jaffrey  would 
be  sure  to  instantly  decline.  It  was  not 
John  Grant's  habit  to  ask  favors  that  must 
be  refused,  but  he  was  none  the  less  loyal 
to  the  first  lady  of  Grafton. 

VII. 

Spring  came  to  Grafton  like  an  unan 
nounced  young  guest  who  steals  into  a  dull 
dismantled  house  and  surprises  the  inhabit 
ants  with  a  charming  gayety  and  laughing 
voice,  with  a  disorderly  litter  of  fresh  flow 
ers  and  greenery  all  about  the  bare  prosaic 
rooms.  Nelly  herself  might  have  personi 
fied  in  advance  the  welcome  change  of 
season,  and  nobody  greeted  the  coming  of 
spring  with  more  joy  than  the  young  girl, 
who  went  singing  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
and  brought  in  Mayflowers  and  anemones 
until  Miss  Jaffrey  seriously  announced  that 
there  was  no  longer  an  empty  china  mug 
or  flower  glass  in  the  closets. 

New  England  people  are  never  quite  sure 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  277 

that  they  may  not  have  another  snow-storm 
until  a  certain  day  of  movable  date  when 
the  sun  shines  and  the  dry  ground  settles 
itself  with  a  determination  not  to  be  mis 
taken.  This  day  usually  comes  early  in 
May,  and  gives  conclusive  evidence  that 
winter  is  f-airly  gone.  It  is  not  a  day  when 
one  can  comfortably  exert  one's  self,  it  is  too 
much  like  summer.  Only  yesterday  the 
east  wind  may  have  been  full  of  shivers, 
but  now  Miss  Jaffrey  and  Betty  were  busy 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  suffering  more 
or  less  from  the  heat  and  from  the  cares  of 
spring  housekeeping.  The  fragrant  air 
was  blowing  through  the  rooms,  even  Mr. 
Leonard  had  opened  his  window  a  little  way, 
and  propped  it  by  a  too  thin  book  that  was 
slowly  bending  together  under  the  weight 
of  the  heavy  sash. 

The  unseasonable  heat  did  not  end  with 
the  close  of  day,  but  a  summer-like  evening 
followed,  lighted  by  a  full  moon.  Every 
body  was  out  -  of  -  doors,  and  though  Miss 
Jaffrey  was  tired  after  her  busy  care-taking, 
she  was  kept  in  the  shop  until  long  after 
eight.  The  academy  girls  were  weaving  a 
fine  romance  about  her  of  late,  and  liked  to 
come  to  buy  her  wares.  In  June  would  be 


278  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

the  great  exhibition  day,  and  their  hearts 
were  already  more  concerned  about  their 
white  gowns  and  their  outward  decoration 
than  about  the  improvement  of  their  un- 
scholastic  minds.  They  hushed  their  chat 
ter  and  put  on  a  more  decorous  and  def 
erential  manner  as  they  came  into  Miss 
Jaffrey's  presence,  but  they  smiled  at  each 
other,  and  understood  a  great  many  things 
without  speech,  the  elder  woman  and  the 
gay  girls.  Miss  Jaffrey  was  very  glad 
when  her  revenues  were  all  collected ;  the 
long  street  was  empty  at  last  and  silent, 
the  young  people  had  all  gone  home,  and 
when  the  last  garrulous  neighbor  had  dis 
appeared  it  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  step 
from  behind  the  counter  and  close  the  shop 
door  and  put  the  strong  cross-bar  in  the 
sockets.  When  the  light  was  out  and  the 
two  or  three  chairs  were  pushed  back 
against  the  wall,  Miss  Jaffrey  gave  a  deep 
sigh,  and  thought  that  she  would  just  look 
at  the  evening  paper  and  then  go  to  bed. 
She  was  really  very  tired.  Almost  always 
when  there  was  a  busy  evening  Nelly  took 
pleasure  in  coming  in  to  help  her.  To  be 
sure  their  nearest  approach  to  a  misunder 
standing  had  followed  a  gentle  reminder 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  279 

that  the  parlor,  not  the  shop,  was  the  place 
for  Nelly  to  receive  and  entertain  her 
friends,  and  there  had  been  a  subsequent  day 
or  two  of  cloudy  weather.  The  shop  was 
much  less  demanding  in  a  social  way  than 
the  rest  of  the  house,  one  must  confess.  But 
Nelly  was  busy  with  her  lessons  nowadays, 
and  quite  solemn  and  cheerful  by  turns 
about  the  approaching  end  of  her  school 
life.  Mr.  Leonard  was  obliged  to  render  a 
vast  deal  of  assistance.  Either  Nelly  was 
stupid  with  her  book  or  he  was  beginning 
to  squander  his  time.  Miss  Jaffrey  felt  a 
sense  of  uneasiness  as  she  stepped  into  the 
parlor.  There  was  no  light  there  yet, 
though  it  was  so  late  in  the  evening,  and 
she  stumbled  against  a  strayed  footstool. 
The  glass  door  that  led  into  the  old  garden 
was  wide  open,  —  somebody  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  force  back  the  heavy  inner  shutter 
that  was  always  drawn  across  the  lower  part 
of  it  in  cold  weather.  Miss  Jaffrey  went  to 
the, door-sill  and  looked  out.  It  was  ridic 
ulous  in  the  girl  to  behave  as  if  summer 
were  already  here,  she  would  take  cold  in 
the  dampness. 

There  was  wonderful  beauty  in  the  famil 
iar  outlook,  and  Esther  Jaffrey  forgave  the 


280  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

careless  young  offender  as  she  herself  yielded 
to  the  temptation.  The  air  was  deliciously 
soft  and  warm,  there  was  a  caressing  sweet 
ness  in  the  fragrance  of  the  old  pear-trees 
which  were  standing  like  white  ghosts  of 
themselves  all  in  full  bloom  in  the  moon 
light.  The  box  was  sending  up  its  heavy 
quaint  odor  —  the  lines  of  its  winter-faded 
leafage  led  straight  down  the  old  path  where 
the  mistress  of  the  house  had  walked  to  and 
fro  on  many  nights  like  this.  She  stepped 
outside  the  house  and  stood  under  the  first 
St.  Michael's  pear-tree,  and  drew  a  long 
breath  close  to  its  lowest  branch.  "  How  the 
old  things  keep  on  blooming  !  "  she  thought, 
with  a  rush  of  feeling  at  the  remembrance 
of  her  own  faded  youth. 

Two  figures  leaning  close  together  came 
out  of  the  shadows  beyond  a  high  syringa 
thicket.  Miss  Jaffrey's  heart  stood  still. 
They  were  lovers,  they  were  whispering  to 
each  other,  and  the  man  held  the  woman  to 
his  heart  and  kissed  her.  Leonard  Jaffrey 
and  Nelly  Grant !  the  moonlight  made  them 
look  the  same  age.  Leonard's  late  spring 
time  was  in  full  glory  of  flowering  and 
delight. 

"What  does  this  mean?"   cried    Esther 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  281 

Jaffrey  in  a  voice  that  seemed  strange  to  her 
own  ears.  "  Nelly,  you  must  go  in  at  once. 
Leonard!  Leonard!  are  you  beside  your 
self?" 

"  Somebody  dearer  than  myself,"  answered 
Leonard  with  a  famous  burst  of  sentiment 
and  valor.  "  Esther,  you  must  be  first  to 
know  how  happy  I  am  "  —  but  Miss  Jaffrey 
turned  away  and  followed  Nelly  into  the 
house  with  stately  steps.  Nelly  had  disap 
peared,  and  the  sister  waited  for  her  brother 
to  come  in.  It  seemed  as  if  they  could  see 
the  indignant  eyes  of  the  family  portraits 
through  the  dark. 

"  Go  to  your  room,  Leonard ;  I  am  tired 
out.  I  leave  you  to  think  what  you  have 
been  doing  in  your  thoughtlessness.  Nelly 
must  leave  us  at  once,"  said  Miss  Jaffrey  in 
the  same  hard  voice,  and  the  convicted  lis 
tener  meekly  obeyed.  There  seemed  little 
use  in  bolting  the  doors  of  the  old  Jaffrey 
house  now  that  its  pride  and  honor  had 
fallen,  but  the  mistress  patiently  went  her 
nightly  round,  and  was  careful  to  follow  all 
her  time-honored  customs  of  care-taking  be 
fore  she  wearily  climbed  the  stairs. 

In  three  rooms  that  night  were  three  wide 
awake  and  troubled  persons.  Nelly  cried 


282  A   VILLAGE  SHOP. 

bitterly  for  a  whole  half  hour  at  the  woeful 
ending  of  her  new  joy.  Miss  Jaffrey  sat  in 
the  moonlight,  still  and  pale  as  if  she  were 
made  of  wood.  Mr.  Leonard  Jaffrey  fell 
asleep  long  before  the  first  hour  of  the  vigil 
was  past,  but  he  was  enough  alive  to  the 
gravity  of  the  occasion  not  to  go  to  bed.  He 
sat  in  the  study  chair  by  the  table ;  it  might 
have  been  that  the  dangerously  pendent  vol 
ume  on  his  bed's  canopy  could  not  refrain 
from  letting  itself  be  the  instrument  of  cap 
ital  punishment. 

It  seemed  very  late  in  the  night  when  the 
scholar  was  roused  from  pleasant  dreams  by 
a  rap  at  his  door.  Before  he  could  fairly 
open  his  eyes,  Miss  Jaffrey  entered,  carrying 
the  last  end  of  her  candle  in  a  tall  silver 
candlestick,  and  she  placed  this  on  the  table 
and  stood  looking  at  him,  while  he  rubbed 
his  eyes  and  tried  to  remember  what  was  the 
matter  and  then  to  appear  heroic.  On  the 
whole  it  was  a  gratification  to  find  that  he 
was  disturbed  enough  not  to  go  to  bed,  but 
his  sister  relented  sufficiently  to  say  that  he 
might  as  well  have  been  there,  it  was  very 
foolish  to  run  the  risk  of  getting  cold  at  his 
age. 

"  We  are  only  as  old  as  our  hearts  are," 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  283 

said  Leonard,  still  looking  upon  himself  as 
the  successful  lover,  but  his  voice  sounded 
like  that  of  a  whimpering  boy. 

"  Be  still,  Leonard !  "  cried  the  over 
wrought  woman.  Her  own  loveless  life  cried 
out  suddenly,  fired  as  it  was  by  a  piteous 
jealousy  that  was  hard  to  bear.  She  saw 
her  brother  at  last  without  the  least  dis 
guise  of  sentiment.  No  hope  was  there  any 
longer,  of  professorship,  or  pulpit ;  she  had 
abased  her  pride  and  starved  and  forbidden 
the  hopes  of  her  own  life  for  this. 

"  I  thought  that  we  must  talk  about  Nelly 
as  soon  as  possible,"  she  said  presently,  in 
a,  stumbling,  weak  way.  "  I  feel  as  if  we 
have  broken  the  trust  of  having  her  here, 
and  John  Grant  will  be  free  to  blame  us 
both"- 

"  Esther,"  said  the  culprit,  leaving  his 
chair  somewhat  stiffly,  "  I  am  engaged  to 
marry  his  daughter.  I  do  not  see  why  you 
think  our  loving  each  other  so  disgraceful. 
The  Jaffreys"  — 

"  Don't,  Leonard ! "  and  Miss  Jaffrey 
steadied  herself  by  the  table.  "  We  must 
put  all  that  by.  What  right  have  you  to 
ask  that  young  girJ  to  marry  you  ?  What 
have  you  to  give  her?  Are  you  going  to  let 


284  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

John  Grant  support  you?  He  is  a  clear 
headed,  right-minded  man,  and  you  have  not 
a  cent,  unless  I  give  it  you ;  we  have  been 
nearer  beggary  in  our  lives  than  you  have 
ever  known.  It  would  not  be  like  you  to 
think  what  John  Grant  will  say." 

"  I  shall  stand  before  him  as  an  honest 
man  and  a  gentleman.  I  wish  you  would 
go  to  bed,  Esther,  and  let  things  take  their 
course.  We  are  no  poorer  than  we  ever 
have  been.  I  wonder  that  Nelly  loves  me, 
but  she  does,  and  she  loves  you.  I  have 
some  work,  very  valuable  data  and  that  sort 
of  thing,  which  I  mean  to  prepare  for  pub 
lication.  There  may  be  duties  in  connection 
with  the  academy,"  murmured  Mr.  Leon 
ard  Jaffrey  with  some  confidence. 

"  There  is  the  shop,"  replied  his  sister, 
looking  gray  and  old.  "I  have  very  few 
dollars  laid  aside  after  all  these  years.  You 
must  go  to  John  Grant's  to  live,"  she  said 
savagely,  as  if  she  meant  it  for  a  taunt. 
"No  doubt  he  will  remember  that  you  are 
a  Jaffrey." 

"  It  would  be  too  far  from  the  post-office," 
said  the  placid,  literal  man,  taking  a  step  or 
two  toward  the  door,  which  was  slowly  swing 
ing  open,  released  as  if  for  a  ghost's  entrance 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  285 

by  its  worn  latch,  and  then  Miss  Jaffrey, 
disheartened  and  shivering  with  excitement, 
left  the  room  without  another  word.  She 
was  powerless  with  all  her  clever  energy  and 
loyal  steadfastness  before  this  purposeless 
creature  of  indolent  drifting  and  lifeless- 
ness.  Ah,  well ;  she  had  often  tortured  her 
self  in  past  years  by  wondering  what  would 
become  of  him  if  she  died  first ;  his  future 
was  secure  now,  even  Betty  would  take  his 
part  and  rejoice  in  the  luxury  that  this 
marriage  would  make  permanent. 


VIII. 

The  pear-trees  opened  their  blossoms  all 
night,  the  maples  and  lilacs  and  syringas 
swelled  their  buds  and  showed  fresh  tips  of 
green  by  morning.  There  were  bluebirds 
and  robins  at  work  in  the  garden  and  sing 
ing  high  in  the  elms  all  along  the  Grafton 
street.  It  was  a  terrible  ordeal  for  the  three 
members  of  the  family  to  meet  each  other  at 
breakfast-time,  but  high  tragedy  is  impos 
sible  by  daylight,  however  suitable  it  may 
appear  at  night.  Nelly  Grant  looked  fright 
ened  and  heavy  -  eyed  and  a  little  sulky ; 


286  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

Miss  Jaffrey  was  thin  and  old,  but  most  ap 
pealing,  with  a  gentle  stateliness  that  won 
the  young  girl's  heart  all  over  again.  The 
lover  looked  and  appeared  exactly  as  usual. 
"  Nelly,"  said  Esther  Jaffrey,  and  she  held 
out  her  hand  to  the  girl.  "  Nelly,  I  have 
been  very  much  grieved  and  worried,  but  I 
do  not  mean  to  be  unkind.  You  are  very 
young,  a  great  deal  younger  than  my  brother 
and  me,  and  you  must  not  think  of  —  this 
any  more  until  your  father  has  heard  of  it. 
My  brother  will  talk  with  him  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  you  must  be  reasonable; 
there  are  so  many  things  which  make  me 
think  it  would  be  unwise  "  —  and  then  the 
good  woman  turned  to  the  breakfast-table, 
and  tried  to  behave  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened.  It  was  not  a  repast  which  was  af 
terward  remembered  as  having  been  cheer 
ful  or  convivial,  but  it  was  brief  and  things 
were  at  least  made  no  worse.  Nelly  helped 
Miss  Jaffrey  wash  the  china  and  silver  after 
ward  ;  she  noticed  curiously  for  the  first  time 
the  handsome  crest  that  was  engraved  on  the 
silver  cream-pitcher,  and  looked  up  to  find 
her  companion's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with 
unwonted  coldness.  The  crest  did  not  mean 
half  so  much  to  Nelly  as  one  might  have 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  287 

thought  or  wished,  and  was  not  in  the  least 
connected  with  her  simple  ambitions.  Alas, 
how  Miss  Jaffrey's  heart  was  aching !  She 
had  never  been  ashamed  before  as  she  was 
ashamed  now.  The  Jaffreys  were  to  be 
John  Grant's  dependents,  unless  he  was  sen 
sible  enough  to  cast  them  off  and  accuse 
them  indignantly  of  lack  of  care  for  his 
daughter  and  her  best  interests.  Alas, 
alas !  If  Nelly  would  only  go  to  school  it 
would  be  more  possible  to  think  what  should 
be  done ;  but  it  was  a  long  hour  from  eight 
to  nine,  and  Leonard  would  not  even  go  to 
his  study  and  take  himself  out  of  the  way. 
If  Miss  Jaffrey  had  understood  that  the  lov 
ers  were  hoping  to  have  a  few  words  alone 
together,  I  do  not  think  that  she  was  in  a 
frame  of  mind  to  have  granted  the  opportu 
nity. 

There  came  a  loud  knock  at  the  front 
door  just  as  Nelly  was  coming  down-stairs 
with  her  school-books.  She  looked  rueful 
when  she  saw  her  father,  and  was  startled 
into  a  fear  that  Miss  Jaffrey  had  already 
summoned  him,  and  that  Lynch-law  was  to 
be  served  upon  her  love.  But  the  other 
selectmen  of  the  town  were  with  him,  and 
she  waited  on  the  stairs  while  they  solemnly 


288  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

deposited  their  hats  on  the  straight-backed 
mahogany  chair  by  the  parlor  door  and  dis 
appeared,  then  she  flew  out  to  school  without 
even  a  greeting  to  her  father,  who  started  to 
call  her  back,  and  then  remembered  the  im 
portant  business  in  hand. 

"  We  have  come  to  see  your  brother  on 
business  this  morning,"  said  the  spokesman, 
turning  to  Miss  Jaffrey,  though  the  brother 
was  also  in  the  room.  "  You  are  acquainted 
with  the  fact  that  the  selection  of  a  librarian 
for  the  new  library  built  under  our  super 
vision,  together  with  that  of  the  committee, 
rests  in  our  hands.  We  have  said  nothing 
of  the  time  of  decision,  for  fear  that  outside 
influence  would  be  brought  to  bear.  We 
don't  feel  as  if  we  had  any  right  to  pass  by 
such  a  distinguished  lover  of  learning  and  a 
member  of  our  most  noted  family,  and  now 
request  Mr.  Jaffrey  to  consider  and  accept. 
There  will  be  arduous  work  in  selecting  the 
books  and  getting  the  thing  going,"  said  the 
selectman,  relaxing  from  the  effort  of  his 
previously  composed  speech,  and  beginning 
to  grow  red  in  the  face  and  damp  as  to  his 
skin,  "  but  I  can  tell  you  there 's  money 
enough  to  pay  the  bills,  and  for  clerk-hire 
too,  if  he  wants  it.  The  regular  salary  at 


A  VILLAGE  SHOP.  289 

present,  besides  expenses,  will  be  a  thousand 
dollars  a  year." 

Miss  Jaffrey  and  her  brother  looked  at 
each  other;  he  at  least  was  triumphant.  "I 
accept  this  mark  of  confidence  with  profound 
thanks,"  said  Leonard,  bowing  handsomely 
to  the  selectmen.  "  I  shall  feel  that  my  long 
years  'of  study  have  been  in  the  providence 
of  God  a  special  training  for  the  position." 

Miss  Jaffrey  was  dizzy  and  unnerved  ;  she 
bade  the  selectmen  good-morning,  for  they 
were  in  haste  with  morning  calls  at  that 
season  of  the  year,  being  busy  farmers.  The 
new  librarian  ushered  them  out  with  great 
politeness  and  closed  the  hall-door  gently. 
Then  he  stopped  a  moment  to  reflect,  and 
presently  hurried  back  on  tiptoe  with  a  pom 
pous  smile.  Miss  Esther  still  stood  where 
he  had  left  her. 

"  I  am  very  glad  and  proud,  brother,"  she 
said  with  effort,  and  the  great  man  was  un 
expectedly  a  little  chilled. 

"  Esther,"  he  answered  amiably,  as  if  he 
had  something  to  forgive  her,  "I  have  al 
ways  had  confidence  that  the  time  would 
come  when  I  should  be  able  to  repay  your 
kindness.  You  must  be  done  with  the  shop 
now.  We  "  — 


290  A  VILLAGE  SHOP. 

"  Never  !  "  said  the  pale  old  woman,  but 
in  spite  of  this,  her  heart  felt  curiously  light. 
At  that  moment  the  shop-bell  tinkled  impa 
tiently,  and  Miss  Jaffrey  went  in,  stately  as 
a  princess,  to  wait  upon  an  early  customer. 


MEKE  POCHETTE. 


I. 

THE  French  Canadian  village  of  Bona ven 
ture  seemed  to  have  strayed  away  from  its 
companions  and  lost  itself  in  the  interminable 
wilderness  that  lies  between  the  settlements 
of  the  Eastern  States  and  the  St.  Lawrence 
country.  For  many  years  the  community 
was  self-centred  and  the  nearest  market- 
town  too  far  away  to  be  of  consequence.  A 
visionary  seigneur,  an  aerial,  castle-building 
Frenchman  who  never  took  the  trouble  to 
leave  his  own  chateau  except  to  taste  the 
joys  of  Paris,  had  sent  out  a  colony  to  this 
new  possession,  but  it  dwindled  away  and 
did  not  flourish.  The  factor  was  proved  a 
cheat  at  last,  and  the  old  count  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  smiled,  and  resigned  himself. 
Some  of  the  disappointed  settlers  retraced 
the  trail  to  the  great  river,  but  a  few  re 
mained ;  they  had  their  gardens  and  their 
pigs  and  chickens.  Life  might  be  far  worse 
elsewhere. 


292  MERE  POCHETTE. 

The  lumbermen  came  by  and  by  with 
their  long  axes ;  the  old  seigneur's  timber 
made  rich  other  men  than  his  heirs,  while 
Bonaventure  flourished  for  a  season  with 
new  prosperity.  The  rough  road  over  which 
the  great  logs  were  hauled  to  a  distant  stream 
proved  a  permanent  thoroughfare,  and  now 
and  then  a  stranger  came  and  stayed.  The 
mother-church  sent  a  pastor  to  teach  and 
pray  among  these  neglected  children,  and  a 
sharp  spire,  in  glistening  armor  of  tin,  rose 
above  the  later  growth  of  spruces  and  ma 
ples  that  had  hastened  to  conceal  the  great 
stumps  of  the  vanished  pines.  The  first  log 
huts  were  one  by  one  replaced  by  the  high- 
roofed  houses  of  regulation  shape  and  size 
which  one  may  see  in  Beauport,  in  Lorette, 
in  a  hundred  other  villages  of  the  French 
regime.  This  was  a  small  town,  this  Bona 
venture,  but  it  valued  itself  even  more  than 
was  necessary  in  later  years.  The  hereditary 
owners  of  the  petty  estates  were  apt  to  look 
with  suspicion  upon  any  new-comers,  and 
when  it  was  ascertained  that  a  man  called 
Joseph  Pochette  from  the  neighborhood  of 
Quebec  had  bought  the  Rispe  house  and 
land,  with  a  piece  of  outlying  forest,  there 
was  a  bitter  arraignment  of  such  proceed- 


MERE  POCHETTE.  293 

ings.  Mere  Poulette,  who  kept  the  village 
shop  in  her  front  room,  was  particularly 
angry,  though  one  would  have  believed  her 
ready  to  welcome  a  new  customer.  "  Some 
crime  has  forced  him  to  abandon  his  birth 
place,"  she  exclaimed,  and  glared  round  upon 
the  startled  company. 

But  Joseph  himself,  a  good  fellow  enough, 
quickly  pacified  the  neighborhood,  especially 
as  he  died  of  fever  within  a  year  or  two  af 
ter  his  appearance  in  Bonaventure  society. 
His  funeral  was  a  satisfactory  one,  but  Mere 
Pochette  had  already  drawn  down  upon  her 
self  the  dislike  of  her  associates.  She  was 
wickedly  proud  and  independent,  a  black 
hearted  schemer  who  cared  only  to  grow 
rich ;  and  when  she  went  by  the  houses  with 
her  fatherless  baby  in  her  arms,  she  won 
no  compassion,  for  she  asked  none,  and  all 
hearts  were  011  the  defensive.  Even  the 
fact  that  old  Poulette  had  not  succeeded  in 
making  a  good  bargain  with  widow  Manon 
for  her  woodland  was  not  lost  sight  of,  for 
had  not  this  stranger  the  soul  of  an  aristo 
crat  under  her  peasant's  clothes. 

At  last  there  was  another  change  at  Bona 
venture  ;  one  day  the  surveyors  came  with 
their  chains  and  compasses,  and  before  any 


294  MERE  POCHETTE. 

body  could  take  time  to  fairly  consider  such 
an  innovation  the  new  railroad  was  pushing 
its  way  northward  through  the  swamps  and 
forests.  Now  the  piece  of  worthless  waste 
which  Manon  would  not  sell  to  Poulette  — 
the  obstinate  woman !  —  was  sold  to  the  com 
pany  at  an  excellent  price.  It  was  all  a 
piece  of  luck,  but  the  indignant  chorus  of 
the  little  shop  could  not  forgive  such  an  out 
rage.  As  time  went  on,  however,  Providence 
seemed  to  repay  her  for  her  behavior.  Her 
only  child  made  an  unfortunate  match  with 
a  foreigner,  though  it  was  well  known  that 
Mere  Pochette  meant  to  buy  the  chit  a  rich 
husband.  Then  she  was  presently  burdened 
with  an  orphan  grandchild,  and  the  chorus 
chattered  and  sing-songed  their  satisfaction. 
It  took  a  stalwart  character  to  keep  its  own 
way  with  almost  an  aspect  of  serenity;  there 
was  no  light  task  in  facing  the  dislike  and 
distrust  of  one's  townspeople,  though  as 
Mere  Pochette  grew  richer  and,  if  the  truth 
must  be  told,  prouder  and  more  powerful 
year  by  year,  her  neighbors  were  civil  enough 
to  her  face  and  even  obsequious,  the  worst 
of  them,  whatever  they  might  have  said  in 
winter  evenings  behind  her  back.  She  had 
devoted  all  her  energies  to  securing  a  gener- 


MERE  POCHETTE.  295 

ous  dowry  for  her  daughter.  The  mistaken 
girl  had  disregarded  this  provision,  had 
thwarted  her  mother's  wishes,  and  had  suf 
fered  enough,  God  knows  !  Now  Mere  Po 
chette's  object  in  life  was  the  wise  ordering 
of  the  little  granddaughter,  and  when,  by 
and  by,  she  was  enviably  settled  in  life,  the 
sneering  by-standers  might  say  what  they 
chose.  This  noble  worldly  ambition  made 
Mere  Pochette  glad  to  work  early  and  late 
and  to  toil  and  save.  She  would  put  her 
grandchild  where  all  the  village  might  not 
touch  her.  A  career  of  pride  and  happiness 
should  be  put  into  little  Manon's  future. 

The  neighbors  were  apt  to  look  suspi 
ciously  at  little  Manon,  the  granddaughter, 
as  she  went  by  their  houses  with  quick,  light 
footsteps.  She  was  of  mixed  race  at  any 
rate.  Her  father  was  a  young  engineer  from 
the  States  who  had  married  this  old  Manon 
Pochette's  handsome  daughter,  and  they  had 
held  their  heads  too  high,  the  fools  !  and 
shaken  the  dust  of  the  little  village  off  their 
feet.  It  was  the  way  of  the  world  ;  one  April 
day  their  ribbons  were  flying,  and  they 
laughed  aloud  together  and  never  cared  to 
cast  a  look  behind  them  at  old  friends  ;  the 
next  spring  a  letter  came,  and  the  priest  read 


296  MERE  POCHETTE. 

it  to  the  widow,  that  her  daughter  Jeanne  was 
dead.  Presently  the  young  engineer,  broken 
and  spent  by  chills  and  fever  and  hard  for 
tune,  came  creeping  back  with  a  cough  and 
a  white  scared  face  and  an  ailing  motherless 
baby  to  the  high-roofed  cottage.  Old  Ma- 
non  blessed  herself,  and  waved  her  thrifty 
hands  in  dismay.  She  rolled  her  eyes  and 
made  grimaces,  and  became  eloquent  in 
patois  sentences  which  her  son-in-law  did  not 
even  try  to  translate  for  himself.  Then  she 
mounted  to  her  garret  and  came  down  pres 
ently  with  the  dusty  cradle.  The  wailing 
child  was  fumbled  and  tumbled  and  smoth 
ered  in  coverings  that  seemed  to  have  been 
waiting  for  it,  and  the  waning  fire  in  the 
high,  square  stove  was  rekindled,  though  the 
May  sun  shone  in  benignantly.  The  young 
man  coughed  less  often  for  a  blissful  hour ; 
he  sank  into  an  angular  chair  at  the  chimney 
corner,  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
cried  silently. 

The  little  house  had  seemed  as  full  of 
romance  as  a  scene  at  a  play,  the  year  be 
fore  ;  he  had  not  concerned  himself  with  the 
rest  of  the  habitants  of  Bonaventure ;  they 
were  only  the  tawdry  stage  crowd  that  weeps 
and  exclaims  in  perfunctory  unison  while  the 


MERE  POCHETTE.  297 

hero  and  heroine  suffer  real  pains  and  know 
true  joys  just  behind  the  footlights.  Now 
the  sentiment  and  the  amusement  had  faded 
out  entirely.  The  garden  of  his  life  had  sud 
denly  been  blackened  by  the  most  chilling  of 
frosts  ;  it  was  late  spring  here  in  old  Manon's 
plain  house,  she  was  a  stout,  unsympathetic 
old  French  Canadian ;  and  as  he  had  come 
from  the  railway  station  tired  to  death  with 
his  long  journey  and  finding  even  the  baby  a 
heavy  burden,  he  had  not  been  blind  or  deaf 
to  the  unspoken  jeers  and  curious  glances 
which  were  ready  for  him  at  almost  every 
house.  He  had  once  been  a  hero  in  his 
petty  fashion  ;  the  men  of  the  village  had 
been  obliged  to  obey  him  for  a  short  three 
months  ;  he  had  disdained  the  women,  all 
except  the  pretty  creature  who  had  become 
his  wife.  Whether  he  had  regretted  his 
marriage  nobody  would  ever  know.  It  was  a 
dangerous  experiment  to  carry  her  among 
young  girls  whose  training  and  schooling 
had  been  of  a  better  sort,  but  now  there 
was  nothing  sweeter  or  sadder  to  think  of 
than  the  days  when  they  had  been  deep  in 
love.  Poor  Jeanne !  her  grave  was  left 
alone  in  an  unsheltered  western  burying- 
ground.  He  could  not  see  even  that  low 


298  MERE  POCHETTE. 

sandy  mound  again,  and  now  that  he  had  in 
despair  begged  and  borrowed  his  way  hither 
to  bring  little  Manon  to  her  grandmother,  he 
felt  that  the  great  mystery  of  death  would 
soon  be  made  plain  to  him.  The  few  men 
who  remembered  him  on  this  new  railroad 
had  been  very  kind,  and  for  a  few  hours  his 
reinstatement  to  a  semblance  of  his  former 
position  and  relationship  had  brought  back 
something  of  his  old  good  comradeship  and 
vi<ror.  He  even  criticised  the  finish  of  the 

O 

work  which  had  been  done  since  he  went 
away,  and  discussed  it  with  an  acquaintance 
who  was  now  an  official  of  the  company  and 
journeying  prosperously  to  the  terminus  at 
Quebec.  A  kind-hearted  woman  had  helped 
him  to  take  care  of  the  baby  ;  he  had  seen 
her  eyes  fill  with  tears  at  his  bungling  at 
tempt  to  undress  it  the  night  before,  but  he 
could  not  cry  himself.  He  had  sometimes 
looked  at  the  little  trimming  of  the  baby's 
dress  for  a  half  hour  at  a  time,  he  remem 
bered  so  well  the  tune  his  wife  had  sung  as 
she  sewed  it  on,  and  held  and  shaped  it  with 
her  fingers,  months  ago.  It  seemed  like 
years  already,  though  the  baby's  short  life 
almost  linked  that  time  to  this. 


MERE  POCHETTE.  299 

The  fire  crackled  in  the  box-stove,  the 
little  child  was  sound  asleep  in  the  great  cra 
dle  ;  old  Manon,  the  grandmother,  stepped 
heavily  to  and  fro,  and  now  and  then  put  a 
bowl  or  a  plate  on  the  kitchen-table.  She 
muttered  something  about  her  poor  little 
one,  and  clasped  her  hands  ostentatiously, 
and  seemed  to  consider  the  question  of 
prayer,  but  gave  a  savage  glance  at  the  poor 
son-in-law  instead,  and  went  on  her  slow 
rounds  about  the  room.  He  noticed  that 
she  looked  ten  years  older  than  she  had  the 
year  before,  but  it  hardly  surprised  him,  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  was  so  changed,  and 
then  he  looked  wistfully  at  the  plump  bed 
in  the  corner,  and  longed  to  lie  there  and 
forget  his  weariness  in  sleep.  He  and 
Jeanne  had  run  away  to  be  married  ;  her 
mother  would  not  hear  to  the  match,  because 
this  would-be  son-in-law  was  not  a  Catholic. 
When  he  looked  up  at  the  mantel  shelf, 
however,  his  own  letter  that  told  the  stern 
mistress  of  the  house  of  her  daughter's  death 
was  displayed  beside  the  brass  candlestick 
and  the  little  picture  of  St.  Joseph  which 
had  been  blessed  by  the  archbishop.  After 
all,  was  it  not  something  to  have  a  literate 
son-in-law  ? 


300  MERE  POCHETTE. 

Ill  the  next  house  and  the  house  beyond, 
the  neighbors  were  talking,  and  watching 
by  turns  the  door  which  the  traveler  had 
lately  entered.  "  It  is  well  that  Manon  Po 
chette  has  made  the  round  of  the  blessed 
stations  of  the  cross  every  morning  these 
many  years,"  said  the  fierce  dame  who  sat 
in  her  little  shop  across  the  way.  "  The 
saints  warned  her,  she  will  be  poor  indeed 
and  incapable,  without  their  help,  to  bring 
up  an  infant  of  no  gifts ;  a  perfectly  deplor 
able  occasion,  my  friends,"  and  she  looked 
from  one  to  another,  while  a  doleful  neigh 
bor  closed  her  eyes  and  groaned  loudly.  It 
was  a  great  while  since  anything  so  inter 
esting  had  happened  in  Bonaventure. 

"  He  has  been  robbed  of  his  haughty  be 
havior,"  continued  the  first  speaker.  "  A 
wicked  pride  indeed,  but  an  abased  man 
ner  of  return  to  an  insulted  house.  He  will 
not  toss  pennies  now  to  good  Justin  Pou- 
lette,  who  has  indeed  a  safe  subsistence,  but 
spends  nothing  for  fine  clothes  " 

"  She  threw  them  at  his  face,"  said  doleful 
old  Marie  Binet  sharply.  "  She  had  reason. 
If  he  treated  Jeanne  wickedly  he  now  has  his 
reward.  She  had  an  amiable  appearance, 
but  Mere  Pochette  clothed  her  like  a  doll, 


M&RE  POCHETTE.  301 

and  the  devil  tempted  her.  She  had  not 
the  look  of  a  child  whom  one  may  believe 
either  good  or  beautiful,"  and  Marie  Binet 
gazed  at  her  acquaintances  for  confirmation. 
This  was  venturing  too  far.  Marie  was 
known  to  the  initiated  to  be  a  thief  and  a 
liar,  and  she  feigned  not  to  notice  a  smile 
of  derision  while  she  took  her  basket  of 
potatoes  and  went  her  way.  She  had  her 
revenge  ;  at  the  moment  she  closed  the  in 
hospitable  door,  and  began  to  mutter  a  re 
freshing  imprecation,  Manon  Pochette  beck 
oned  and  called  her  eagerly  from  across  the 
way.  The  audience  within  the  little  shop 
watched  her  from  the  window  with  envious 
eyes.  Manon  Pochette  was  one  who  kept 
her  own  secrets,  she  never  had  been  one  of 
the  chosen  company  of  gossips. 

But  this  must  be  a  dire  emergency,  for 
presently  Marie  reappeared  without  her 
basket.  Somebody  must  go  for  Father 
David ;  the  son-in-law  had  a  few  moments 
before  slipped  from  his  chair  and  become  a 
dead  weight  of  insensibility  upon  the  floor ; 
they  had  borne  him  to  the  bed ;  who  could 
tell  whether  he  might  not  be  dead  already  ? 

"  Marolie  !  marche  !  "  said  Marie  impor 
tantly,  stamping  her  foot  and  raising  her 


302  MERE  POCHETTE. 

voice  as  if  her  betters  were  nothing  but 
dilatory  horses,  arid  while  some  one  hurried 
away  to  find  his  reverence,  the  rest  followed 
her  over  to  the  Pochette  kitchen. 

In  a  few  hours  more  the  excitement  was 
over  and  night  had  fallen.  The  young  man's 
face  was  peaked  and  white,  and  his  body  was 
lying  at  its  slender  length,  thin  and  forsaken 
of  the  poor  warmth  that  life  had  lately  kept. 
Manon  was  sitting  by  his  side,  rocking  to 
and  fro  and  keeping  watch  by  herself.  She 
had  lighted  some  sacred  candles  which  she 
had  long  been  hoarding,  and  they  were  burn 
ing  at  the  sleeper's  head  in  the  brass  candle 
sticks.  The  priest  had  come  in  time,  thank 
God !  the  despised  son-in-law  had  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  around  bewildered  for 
a  moment.  He  had  assented  to,  and  even 
welcomed  the  offices  of  the  church ;  they 
must  have  been  to  him  a  last  and  only  pro 
vision  against  the  evils  that  might  be  wait 
ing  for  him  and  his.  The  baby  was  chris 
tened  too ;  the  father  had  already  whispered, 
with  an  appealing  look,  that  she  was  named 
Manon.  Late  in  the  night  a  waning  moon 
rose  solemnly  above  the  level  line  of  the 
horizon,  and  looked  long  at  the  few  white 
washed  houses  with  their  high  roofs.  She 


MERE  POCHETTE.  303 

shone  into  the  eastern  windows  all  along  the 
row.  The  whole  flat  country  was  lying  in 
shadow ;  this  faded  moon  at  last  looked  into 
one  window  that  was  apart  from  the  rest,  as 
if  she  had  an  errand  there.  Manon  was  old 
and  tired,  she  would  have  no  watchers,  but 
she  had  ceased  her  prayers  and  fallen  asleep, 
and  the  dead  man's  face  wore  a  look  of  in 
effable  peace.  The  candles  were  almost 
burnt  out,  the  poor  baby  cried  sometimes  in 
a  faint  unexpectant  way,  and  the  moon  hid 
herself  under  the  edge  of  a  great  cloud. 


II. 

Out  of  this  nourishing  of  sorrow  and 
misfortune,  like  a  plant  that  blooms  best  in 
a  hard  cold  soil,  grew  little  Manon.  Her 
childhood  was  not  a  pleasant  one  in  its  sur 
roundings,  indeed  a  less  vigorous  nature 
would  have  been  stunted  by  the  narrow  life 
and  lack  of  sympathy.  Bonaventure  was  a 
selfish  parish  in  spite  of  the  lovely  influence 
of  the  old  priest,  Father  David,  who,  worn 
out  with  his  service  to  a  stolid  flock,  at  length 
lay  down  his  terrestrial  body  to  rest  in  the 
tawdry  burying-ground,  while  his  spiritual 


304  MERE  POCHETTE. 

body  went  away  to  its  own  inheritance.  The 
new  priest  had  come  to  the  parish  half  un 
wittingly  ;  it  was  a  poor  cure,  and  his  house 
and  church  were  plain  and  uninviting.  They 
could  give  him  no  pedestal  of  worldly  pride 
and  power.  The  new  part  of  the  village 
grew  steadily;  over  at  the  other  side  of 
the  railroad  there  were  repair  shops  and 
supplies  of  wood  for  the  trains,  and  in  that 
quarter  Bonaventure  expanded  itself.  The 
new  parishioners  were  a  somewhat  lawless 
set  and  distinct  from  the  old  residents  ;  the 
little  priest  was  not  man  enough  to  control 
them  or  to  lift  them  up  in  the  arms  of  his 
faith.  He  moved  about  among  them  con 
scious  of  the  dignity  of  the  church,  bland 
and  double,  but  an  inoffensive  creature  in 
the  main,  who  wished  things  were  better, 
but  also  wished  other  people  to  take  the 
trouble  of  making  them  so. 

Manon  Pochette's  house  was  still  the  last 
one  at  that  end  of  the  row ;  she  owned  a 
good  bit  of  land  just  beyond  it,  and  if  you 
crossed  that  you  came  to  a  swamp  ;  the  house 
itself  stood  a  good  deal  higher,  and  over 
looked  the  wide  country  that  stretched  away 
to  the  westward.  Behind  it  was  all  the 
eastern  country,  and  from  the  low  ridge  there 


MERE  POCHETTE.  305 

was  also  a  grand  view  of  the  railroad  that 
carried  idle  people  to  and  fro  on  the  face 
of  the  earth. 

To  Man  on  Pochette's  mind  the  railroad 
was  quite  unnecessary  except  for  carrying 
her  wares  and  her  neighbors  to  the  market- 
twon.  As  for  the  passengers,  they  always 
seemed  the  same  persons  who  went  to  and 
fro  in  the  hurrying  trains,  for  some  foolish 
reason.  She  never  went  into  a  car  herself, 
the  saints  defend  it,  no  !  She  had  duties  in 
life,  and  a  vocation,  with  a  piece  of  land  far 
too  large  for  an  old  woman  to  till,  and  be 
side,  there  was  the  grandchild,  who  grew 
like  a  young  fowl,  with  an  unforeseen  and 
impossible  appetite  into  the  bargain.  The 
mother,  Jeanne,  had  been  no  care  at  all ;  she 
had  seemed  to  take  care  of  herself  entirely 
when  one  compared  her  with  this  one,  who  was 
a  terrible  child  of  desires  and  eagernesses. 
All  Mere  Manon's  grievances  against  the 
young  people  had  vanished  long  ago  ;  it  was 
fate  that  had  been  hard  upon  her,  not  they, 
and  the  good  Lord  had  taken  them  to  him 
self,  poor  children !  Old  Man  on  had  said 
many  a  prayer  for  them  in  the  bleak  church 
of  a  winter  morning,  and  had  appeased  her 
conscience  by  the  number  of  masses  she  had 


306  MERE  POCHETTE. 

caused  Father  David  and  Father  Pierre  to 
say  for  the  good  of  such  innocent  souls.  Yet 
occasionally,  as  she  leaned  on  the  heavy  hoe 
to  take  a  minute's  rest  as  she  worked  among 
her  cabbages,  the  old  Adam  in  her  nature 
got  the  better  of  such  pious  views  of  her 
affliction,  and  she  grumbled  to  herself  about 
that  foolish  infant,  that  ungrateful  child, 
her  daughter,  or  that  worthless  beggarly 
heretic,  her  son-in-law.  But  she  kept  their 
black  wooden  crosses  in  good  order  in  the 
church-yard,  and  their  memories  came  to 
her  like  pale  ghosts  beside  the  actual  pres 
ence  and  constant  demands  of  her  young 
granddaughter. 

III. 

Little  Manon  was  made  up  of  puzzles 
and  contradictions  ;  the  old  peasant  woman 
was  more  and  more  distressed  and  gratified 
by  them  day  by  day.  She  was  glad  to  have 
the  neighbors  see  that  her  grandchild  was 
better  than  theirs  —  in  fact  she  had  always 
maintained  a  social  advantage  in  Bonaven- 
ture  corresponding  to  her  residence  on  the 
highest  point  of  the  ridge.  She  overlooked 
Julie  Partout  and  Marie  Binet  and  Mere 


MERE  POCHETTE.  307 

Potilette  disdainfully  in  more  ways  than  one, 
but  she  was  exasperated  all  the  same  by  lit 
tle  Manon's  vagaries  and  differences  from 
her  own  standard. 

The  child  was  devoted  to  church-going  — 
she  cried  when  she  was  very  young  to  go 
with  her  grandmother  to  mass,  and  her  eyes 
grew  large  and  her  face  grew  grave,  when 
she  sat  or  knelt  before  the  altar  and  looked 
at  its  poor  decorations  of  candles  and  gild 
ing  and  the  votive  offerings  of  faded  artifi 
cial  flowers  and  tinsel  work  that  were  ar 
ranged  upon  a  smaller  altar  at  the  side. 
Poor  child,  it  was  not  because  she  was  satis 
fied  with  this  cheap  splendor,  but  rather  that 
she  caught  the  hint  it  gave  of  better  glories, 
that  she  liked  to  be  in  church.  She  gave 
it  no  thought,  as  a  bird  sings  in  a  cage  and 
praises  the  bit  of  sunshine  at  the  garret 
window,  when  it  has  never  in  all  its  life 
spread  wings  to  the  current  of  a  great  wind 
or  gone  swiftly  through  the  bright  noonday 
air  to  a  woodland  nest.  The  grandmother, 
who  knew  the  human  nature  of  the  trans 
planted  Frenchmen  and  women  of  her  lim 
ited  Canadian  existence ;  who  could  tell  at 
once  the  value  of  a  sheep  or  even  a  horse, 
and  the  weight  of  a  pig  ;  who  was  shrewd 


308  MERE  POCHETTE. 

at  gardening  and  clever  at  housekeeping; 
who  knew  when  she  was  lied  to,  or  when 
her  dearest  friend  cheated  her  at  a  bargain ; 
old  Manon,  who  was  never  stingy  to  the 
priest,  or  behindhand  at  her  devotions,  who 
thought  herself  entirely  acquainted  with 
things  of  this  world  and  sure  of  a  respect 
ably  high  seat  in  heaven  beside,  —  this  same 
old  Manon  was  baffled  at  last  and  confessed 
herself  unable  to  understand  her  grand 
daughter.  The  only  thing  to  be  said  was 
that  Manon  the  less  was  made  of  different 
stuff. 

Sometimes  it  seemed  to  the  priest,  who 
knew  the  story  of  the  child's  parentage  only 
through  the  medium  of  the  romancing  vil 
lagers,  that  the  vigor  of  the  young  father 
and  mother  had  been  transferred  to  little 
Manon  —  that  their  lives  had  been  checked 
and  blasted  to  enrich  this  one  descendant. 
He  was  given  to  sentimentalizing  a  little,  was 
Father  Pierre,  the  parish  priest,  and  he  felt 
a  great  lack  of  excitement  of  the  best  sort  in 
Bonaventure.  Sometimes  he  told  himself 
that  he  would  see  to  it  that  little  Manon  had 
some  schooling.  She  should  go  to  the  school 
of  the  Sacred  Heart ;  she  might  surely  have 
a  year  or  two  first  with  the  good  gray  nuns ; 


MERE  POCHETTE.  309 

she  must  not  be  left  to  her  own  devices  in 
this  hole  of  a  place.  Nobody  seemed  to 
know  much  of  the  child's  father.  He  had 
told  old  Mere  Pochette  that  he  had  neither 
brothers  nor  sisters,  but  Father  Pierre  soon 
discovered  that  the  good  woman  did  not  like 
to  be  questioned  about  her  son-in-law.  She 
had  felt  a  certain  contempt  for  him  because 
he  came  from  the  States  ;  besides,  it  was  in 
deed  a  monstrous  cowardice  that  he  should 
have  died  so  miserably  and  so  young,  and 
have  made  neither  place  nor  fortune  for 
himself  in  the  world.  "  They  should  have 
waited  for  my  consent,"  old  Manon  assured 
herself.  "  I  could  not  properly  hold  out  al 
ways  against  them  if  he  had  been  a  good 
man.  He  was  a  perfectly  stupid  pig  not  to 
make  sure  of  the  wardrobe  and  dowry  he 
might  have  been  certain  I  would  give  to 
Jeanne.  What  was  my  wealth  for  if  not  for 
my  one  daughter  ?  "  she  would  scold  sadly, 
pulling  hard  and  fast  at  the  weeds  ;  but  now 
it  would  not  be  long  before  young  Manon, 
the  little  aggravation,  would  be  finding  her 
self  a  man.  But  if  all  the  powers  of  heaven 
would  kindly  aid,  Manon  at  least  should 
have  a  respectable  wedding  before  the  high 
altar,  and  should  drive  with  her  husband 


310  MERE  POCHETTE. 

and  the  wedding  party  as  far  across  the 
country  as  the  season  would  allow.  Old  Ma- 
non  was  herself  reared  in  Quebec,  and  her 
hard  brown  face  grew  rosy  and  tender  for  one 
moment  as  she  thought  of  the  train  of  ca- 
leches  that  followed  her  on  her  wedding-day. 
The  tall  ungainly  vehicles  ;  the  shouts  of  the 
guests  ;  the  red-coated  soldiers  who  stopped 
in  the  narrow  streets  to  see  them  pass ;  the 
miles  of  houses  and  the  tall  poplars  of  the 
Beauport  road,  —  the  thought  of  it  all  came 
back  with  a  greater  glory  year  by  year. 
"  He  was  a  good  man  to  me  from  that  day," 
said  the  widow  to  herself  ;  "  he  might  have 
done  better  than  to  bring  me  to  this  rat-hole 
and  leave  me  here ;  but  it  was  a  good  bit  of 
land  and  of  an  enormous  cheapness,  and  he 
knew  that  well.  If  the  Lord  had  pleased  to 
let  us  remain  together,  and  work  in  the  same 
world  and  watch  each  other  grow  old,  like 
the  rest  of  the  neighbors !  It  was  best  so 
if  he  must  have  one  of  us ;  a  woman  can 
work  on  the  land,  but  a  man  is  a  simpleton 
in  his  house.  Joseph  and  Mary  aid  me  with 
these  innocent  cabbages  that  they  may  hold 
up  their  heads  ;  the  Lord  send  us  rain,  for 
my  poor  bones  will  fail  me  to  bring  water 
to  the  crops  a  day  longer,"  and  Manon 


MERE  POCHETTE.  311 

stopped  to  carefully  bless  herself  as  she  knelt 
at  her  work.  Little  Manon  was  of  no  great 
use  in  the  garden,  and  she  was  frequently  be 
rated  because  she  had  not  been  a  grandson 
instead  of  a  granddaughter.  She  was  apt  not 
to  be  very  efficient  in  the  house,  but  it  was 
not  for  lack  of  power  or  of  discretion.  She 
was  idle  and  straying,  and  liked  the  fresh 
air  and  the  sunshine.  She  was  fond  of  visit 
ing  the  priest's  housekeeper  of  an  afternoon, 
and  sometimes  Father  Pierre  himself  beck 
oned  her  into  his  own  parlor,  and  gave  her 
lumps  of  sugar  or  well-dried  figs  from  the 
drawer  of  his  writing-table.  She  had  her 
mother's  beauty  and  her  father's  persuasive 
ways,  but  when  she  was  in  pain  or  her  grand 
mother  scolded  her,  little  Manon  grew  pale 
and  pinched,  and  looked  as  her  father  did 
that  night  he  came  back  defeated  and  dying 
to  Bonaventure.  Old  Manon  was  always 
particularly  aggrieved  when  she  caught  this 
painful,  surprising  likeness,  and  began  to 
talk  about  her  own  sorrows  in  a  wailing  pet 
ulant  tone  that  sent  the  young  girl  from  the 
house  to  seek  elsewhere  for  comfort. 


312  MERE  POCHETTE. 


IV, 

In  this  village,  where  the  days  dragged  so 
slowly,  the  years  had  a  way  of  vanishing,  un 
accountably.  Old  Manon  had  never  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  her  establishment  quite  to 
rights  again,  after  the  intrusion  of  the  young 
engineer  and  his  baby.  She  had  made  up 
her  mind  that  certain  changes  and  arrange 
ments  would  be  necessary,  and  she  was  an 
uncommonly  executive  person,  as  everybody 
knew.  Suddenly  one  became  aware  that 
little  Manon  was  grown  up,  and  that  there 
was  danger  of  a  lover.  She  was  not  old 
enough  nor  wise  enough  to  think  of  such 
things,  but  elderly  people  always  say  that  of 
girls,  as  if  they  themselves  had  waited  for 
their  husbands  until  the  year  before.  Ma 
non  was  unexpected  in  her  choice  ;  her 
grandmother  was  so  conscious  of  her  kinship 
to  an  unknown  mass  of  strange,  rich,  willful, 
clever,  and  vagrant  foreigners  who  belonged 
to  the  States,  that  she  had  vaguely  looked 
forward  to  the  appearance  of  a  hero  who 
should  claim  Manon's  idle  hand ;  a  man, 
however,  who  had  wealth  and  power,  and 
who  would  be  a  son-in-law,  indeed !  But  one 


MERE  POCHETTE.  313 

spring  night  the  silly  girl  had  come  saunter 
ing  home  later  than  usual,  laughing  softly 
and  chattering  like  a  swallow  with  young 
Charles  Pictou,  of  whom  no  one  could  say 
anything  good.  A  terror  to  the  school 
mistress,  a  rebel  at  home  and  abroad ;  a 
youth  who  liked  nothing  but  leading  his  dog 
through  the  world,  or  lounging  about  the 
railroad  station  to  see  the  roaring  engines 
and  the  gaping  strangers.  Charles  Pictou, 
indeed!  and  Manon's  light-heartedness  was 
promptly  quenched  by  a  vigorous  box  of  her 
pretty  ears  as  soon  as  she  had  entered  the 
house.  "  Pick  these  beans,  quickly,"  said 
the  cross  old  woman.  "Am  I  to  die  of  toil  ? 
You  would  starve  like  the  beasts  if  I  were 
not  here  to  earn  the  bread  for  your  fool 
ish  mouth."  And  in  that  moment  a  fierce 
championship  arose  in  little  Manon's  heart 
for  the  lad  whose  whistle  could  even  then  be 
heard  distinctly,  as  if  he  were  waiting  outside, 
longing  to  defend  her  in  her  distress. 

That  summer  the  crops  were  bad,  and  all 
Canada  was  poor  and  complaining.  The 
lumber-yards  were  deserted,  the  rain  spoiled 
the  grain,  the  fishermen  were  in  distress,  and 
aid  was  to  be  sent  to  them  in  the  forlorn 
gulf  villages.  Once  in  a  while  some  enter- 


314  MERE  POCHETTE. 

prising  family  had  gone  to  the  States,  and 
indefinite  rumors  of  their  splendid  prosper 
ity  had  journeyed  back  along  the  straight 
shining  lines  of  the  railroad ;  but  soon  it 
became  a  common  event,  and  the  old  wo 
men  knitted  in  their  doorways,  and  saw  the 
younger  neighbors  go  proudly  away  to  seek 
their  fortunes.  The  elder  Manon  was  more 
contemptuous.  "  It  is  all  one,  here  or  there," 
she  said  to  the  priest's  housekeeper ;  "  the 
good-for-nothing  expect  to  find  a  country 
where  larks  go  to  the  oven  and  cook  them 
selves,  and  apples  fall  sugared  from  the 
trees."  She  surveyed  the  paltry  possessions 
of  the  emigrants  with  pity,  and  wished  their 
owners  good  luck  with  compassion.  "  I  am 
one  who  remains  behind,"  she  said  stiffly, 
and  shook  her  head  until  her  flat  black  hat 
shuddered  from  a  sense  of  its  insecurity. 

The  autumn  shut  down  dark  and  rainy ; 
every  few  days  some  pale-faced  sisters  of 
mercy  or  of  charity,  in  their  quaint  out-of- 
date  garb,  went  flitting  from  house  to  house 
of  the  Bonaventure  settlement,  begging  alms 
for  the  love  of  Mary  and  of  Jesus,  for  some 
sufferers  or  for  the  impoverished  church. 
The  remote  villages  were  in  danger  of  fam- 


MERE  POCHETTE.  315 

ine.  It  was  the  worst  harvest  ever  known, 
and  in  spite  of  reports  that  work  was  hard  to 
find  in  the  States,  the  trains  were  fuller  than 
ever  of  emigrants.  Bonaventure  was  tided 
over  any  great  distress,  in  common  with  most 
of  the  railway  settlements,  but  some  of  its 
inhabitants  thought  they  were  miserable  be 
cause  other  people  were,  and  at  best  life  was 
neither  too  rich  nor  too  comfortable.  In 
the  Western  States  there  were  whole  farms 
given  away ;  in  the  East  there  were  mills 
where  even  the  children  could  earn  great 
wages.  The  little  place  was  in  a  ferment, 
the  quiet  habitants  had  never  been  so  excited 
and  restless.  The  old  women  croaked,  they 
were  condemning  some  persons  for  going, 
and  others  for  staying.  Father  Pierre  laid 
down  his  mass-books  and  tried  to  calm  his 
people,  but  those  who  remembered  his  pred 
ecessor  spoke  often  of  the  benignant  presence 
of  Father  David,  and  openly  reminded  each 
other  of  his  value  to  the  parish.  The  fiery 
French  nature  began  to  show  itself  unpleas 
antly,  and  households  were  divided  against 
themselves. 

The  gloomy  weather  continued,  the  winter 
drew  near.  Little  Manon  and  old  Manon 
went  their  separate  ways,  for  the  young  girl 


316  MERE  POCHETTE. 

was  disobedient  and  would  not  listen  to  her 
grandmother's  objections  and  commands. 
She  and  Charles  Pictou  loved  each  other 
dearly,  and  were  only  wondering  how  they 
could  manage  to  marry.  He  also  was  an 
orphan,  and  the  aunt  with  whom  he  had 
lived  was  but  a  poor  woman,  and  lately  had 
gone  away  with  her  five  thin  children  to  the 
States.  Of  late  years  he  had  helped  to  sup 
port  the  household,  for  he  earned  a  bit  of 
money  now  and  then  ;  but  now  he  was  grow 
ing  older  and  he  would  work  his  fingers  to 
the  bones  for  Manon  if  there  were  anything 
to  do.  He  was  full  of  hope,  he  would  have 
gone  away  afoot  long  ago  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Manon.  The  grandmother  had  talked  a 
great  deal  in  these  last  days  about  sending 
her  to  school  at  a  nunnery  in  Quebec,  and 
the  young  girl  knew  what  it  meant ;  she 
knew,  too,  that  while  everybody  else  was  poor 
there  were  loose  bricks  in  their  chimney  that 
covered  shining  money.  Sometimes  she 
wondered  if  it  would  be  wrong  to  steal  some 
of  it  to  give  to  Charles,  so  that  he  might  go 
away  to  make  a  home  where  they  could  live 
together.  Father  Pierre  had  never  liked 
young  Pictou,  the  lad's  shrewd  eyes  had  seen 
more  than  was  necessary,  and  lately  Charles 


MERE  POCHETTE.  317 

had  stayed  away  from  mass.  But  as  for  the 
housekeeper,  she  was  on  Manon's  and  her 
lover's  side,  and  sometimes  when  the  priest 
sat  with  her  grandmother,  Manon  slipped 
over  to  the  great  house  and  took  revenge  in 
confiding  her  dear  secrets  to  so  kind  a  friend 
as  old  Josephine.  Josephine's  little  room  was 
like  a  nun's  with  its  bare  boards  and  its 
worn  crucifix,  and  pictures  of  various  suffer 
ing  saints.  The  good  soul  had  once  cherished 
a  certainty  that  she  had  a  vocation,  and  told 
Father  Pierre  that  she  must  join  a  sister 
hood  of  great  sanctity  and  benevolence,  but 
the  priest  had  persuaded  himself  and  her 
that  she  was  wrong.  He  could  not  imagine 
where  he  should  supply  her  place  ;  surely 
this  also  was  a  vocation,  and  Josephine  was 
a  most  careful  cook.  Life  in  Bonaventure 
must  not  become  any  more  difficult. 

But  in  the  face  of  disapproval  at  home 
and  distress  abroad,  the  young  people  fairly 
flaunted  their  contentment  and  happiness. 
They  were  sure  that  Charles  would  somehow 
get  to  the  States,  and  that  he  would  soon  be 
come  able  to  send  for  Manon  or  to  come  for 
her.  "  The  old  tyrant  is  right,"  Charles 
said  magnanimously.  "  She  knows  I  should 
be  able  to  take  care  of  you,  and  so  I  should 


318  MERE  POCHETTE. 

indeed.  But  she  might  show  some  confi 
dence  in  me,"  and  he  stamped  his  foot  and 
twirled  the  tassel  of  his  raveled  red  worsted 
belt. 


V. 

The  sweet  sad  day  came  at  length,  with 
out  note  or  warning.  Josephine  herself, 
after  scores  of  prayers  and  misgivings,  had 
ventured  to  offer  Charles  a  liberal  assistance 
from  her  slender  savings,  and  he  was  off 
like  a  falcon,  after  a  few  hurried  kisses  and 
promises  to  his  sweetheart.  He  ran  to  the 
next  station,  five  miles  away,  to  catch  an 
express  train  which  did  not  stop  at  Bonaven- 
ture,  and  the  girl  with  tearful  eyes  went 
down  to  the  village,  to  the  place  where  the 
street  crossed  the  track,  to  catch  a  last 
glimpse  of  her  lover.  She  wished  that 
Charles  had  been  able  to  say  a  prayer  in  the 
church,  but  she  would  do  that  for  him.  Her 
woman's  heart  shrank  from  the  strangeness 
and  dangers  which  he  might  meet,  but  she 
longed  to  go  with  him;  she  would  have 
braved  sorrow  and  want  if  she  could  have 
gone  with  him  to  the  States.  It  seemed 
very  lonely  in  the  old  cottage,  when  she  re- 


MERE  POCHETTE.  319 

turned  ;  she  passed  her  grandmother,  who 
sat  in  the  doorway  looking  surly  and  dismal, 
without  a  word.  The  sky  was  covered  with 
low-lying  gray  and  silver-white  clouds,  the 
black  spruce  woods  stretched  away  cold  and 
thin  to  the  level  horizon.  It  was  almost 
winter  weather,  and  she  was  alone  and  felt 
unsheltered  in  that  great  flat  landscape  with 
its  threadbare  coat.  She  hoped  that  she  need 
not  go  down  to  the  station  again  for  a  long 
time  to  come.  She  had  not  seen  Charles  on 
the  train,  there  was  such  a  roar  and  dusti- 
ness  as  the  train  rushed  by  and  a  crowd  of 
young  men ;  one  of  those  with  the  red  sashes 
must  have  been  Charles  himself ;  had  shouted 
adieu,  or  sung  noisily.  She  felt  as  if  every 
one  of  them  were  laughing  at  her  own  secret, 
and  hated  the  strange  faces  that  stared  at 
her  for  one  miserable  moment  before  they 
were  swept  out  of  sight.  Charles  was  a 
thousand  times  more  skillful  than  the  other 
lads  of  Bonaventure  ;  he  could  surely  make 
his  way,  but  to  what  temptations  might  he 
not  yield,  and  only  yesterday  they  had  been 
together,  and  separation  had  seemed  almost 
impossible ;  at  that  hour  the  States  had 
seemed  as  remote  as  Heaven. 


320  MERE  POCHETTE. 


VI. 

Now  that  Manon's  heart  had  gone  away 
from  Canada,  she  seemed  more  a  foreigner 
than  ever.  All  her  thoughts  and  hopes  had 
gone  to  the  States  with  her  lover,  and  the 
short  days  seemed  long  and  dreary.  In  the 
house  she  tried  to  serve  her  grandmother 
well,  she  hardly  cared  to  go  out-of-doors  at 
all,  and  sat  near  the  fire,  sewing,  or  picking 
beans  with  a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes  that 
made  her  companion  more  and  more  angry. 
They  had  said  nothing  to  each  other  about 
Charles  since  their  first  fierce  battles  earlier 
in  the  year.  The  provincial  life  was  very 
dull  at  best.  One  has  only  to  look  at  the 
transplanting  of  the  French  peasants,  child 
ish,  mercurial,  and  full  of  traditions  and 
grievances,  from  their  ancient  civilization  to 
this  untamed  wilderness  —  only  to  think  of 
their  being  carried  by  a  sort  of  social  inertia 
over  the  roughness  of  their  changed  condi 
tions,  to  understand  the  incongruities  of 
Canadian  life  in  the  remote  settlements. 
By  the  time  Manon  was  grown  there  were 
few  fetes  and  but  little  revelry  and  amuse 
ment  of  any  description.  The  young  men 


MERE  POCHETTE.  321 

soon  hardened  into  stolid  farmers,  who  dis 
cussed  the  politics  of  the  province  and  scru 
tinized  the  behavior  of  their  English  rulers 
with  more  or  less  inapprehension.  They 
grew  stupid  and  heavy ;  they  drank  gin 
and  bad  beer  ;  some  of  the  wives  had  a  hard 
time  of  it,  and  one  would  hardly  recognize 
their  relationship  to  the  merry  vine-growers 
and  soldiers  who  had  been  their  ancestors. 
Old  Manon  Pochette  preserved  many  of  the 
old  customs  ;  she  was  more  a  French  peasant 
and  less  a  Canadian  than  her  neighbors, 
but  young  Manon,  who  had  been  seeing  life 
of  late  through  a  glamour  and  dazzle  of  hap 
piness,  sat  listlessly  in  the  clean  bare  cottage, 
and  wished  herself  away.  There  was  a  col 
ored  print  of  a  saint  with  a  bleeding  heart, 
which  the  grandmother  had  bought  from  a 
peddler.  Manon  had  hated  it  once  with 
its  woebegone  look,  but  now  she  looked  to 
it  often  for  sympathy  and  companionship. 
The  brass  candlesticks  still  decorated  the 
high  shelf  above  the  stove.  The  same  an 
gular  chairs  and  tables  which  thrifty  Joseph 
Pochette  had  made  himself  stood  in  order 
around  the  room. 

The   chief  thing  to  be  hoped  for  was  a 
letter,  but  none  came  from  young   Pictou ; 


322  MERE  POCHETTE. 

perhaps  the  noisy  company  he  had  joined 
on  the  train  had  beguiled  him,  and  he  had 
already  forgotten  Bonaventure.  He  had 
promised  to  send  a  letter  to  Josephine's  care 
at  the  priest's  house,  but  presently  she  was 
found  one  day  in  tears  and  shook  her  head 
dismally  when  Manon  asked  the  often  re 
peated  question.  The  girl's  sharp  eyes  dis 
covered  that  some  enemy  had  guessed  her 
simple  plot,  and  went  away  to  pray,  not  for 
patience  but  for  vengeance,,  Later,  as  she 
entered  the  house,  she  found  old  Marie  Binet 
warming  herself  by  the  stove.  The  drifts 
were  deep  out-of-doors  and  the  girl  came  in 
softly  enough  in  her  great  snow  boots,  but 
her  grandmother  feigned  not  to  hear  her. 
"He  was  a  good-for-nothing"  she  was 
grumbling ;  "  he  will  never  return,  and  at 
last  I  have  nothing  to  fear.  I  had  already 
directed  Father  Pierre  to  advance  the  price 
of  a  ticket  from  me,  when  that  trembling 
fool  Josephine  forestalled  the  plan." 

Marion  stood  on  the  threshold  and  the 
old  women  quailed  at  the  sight  of  her  angry 
eyes.  "Come  in  from  the  snow,"  growled 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  "  my  old  bones 
ache  already,  and  you  will  like  to  see  me 
bent  double." 


M%RE  POCHETTE.  323 

"Another  year,"  and  she  had  quite  re 
gained  her  self-possession,  —  "  another  year 
and  I  will  go  to  the  shrine  of  La  Bonne  Ste. 
Anne.  It  will  be  a  pretty  tour  for  thee,  too, 
Man  on,"  she  added  in  a  softer  tone,  but  Ma- 
non's  ears  had  become  deaf.  "  Another  year," 
she  was  saying  to  herself ;  "  I  may  be  dead 
then,  and  if  not,  to  go  with  a  groaning  proces 
sion  of  cripples  !  God  forbid  !  "  and  tears 
filled  Manon's  eyes,  and  even  fell  down  upon 
the  well-scoured  floor.  "  Where  is  my  let 
ter  ?"  she  said  suddenly,  and  turned  fiercely 
upon  her  grandmother. 

Old  Manon  was  equal  to  so  slight  an  oc 
casion.  Father  Pierre  himself  was  deep  in 
this  intrigue,  which  gave  it  a  certain  dignity 
and  value.  "  Letter !  "  she  repeated,  "  you 
never  had  a  letter  in  your  life,  and  why 
should  I  covet  it  who  cannot  read  even  my 
mass-book  ?  Ungrateful,  listen  to  me  !  Next 
year,  you  shall  go  to  Quebec  and  see  fine 
things ;  to  Lorette  church,  and  to  the  chapel 
of  the  Seminary,  where  are  blessed  relics. 
That  is  all  the  world ;  when  one  has  seen 
Quebec,  one  knows  everything.  I  have  a 
little  money  saved  from  my  poor  garden," 
she  added  amiably  by  way  of  explanation  to 
old  Marie,  who  nodded  sagely.  "  It  is  some- 


324  MERE  POCHETTE. 

thing  to  pray  for  —  Quebec !  "  Marie  re 
sponded  devoutly,  but  the  foolish  girl  would 
not  listen,  she  was  pressing  her  forehead 
against  the  cold  window-pane  and  staring 
out  into  the  starlit  night.  What  fools  she 
and  Charles  had  been  !  Of  course  Father 
Pierre  had  taken  the  letter  from  the  post 
and  given  it  to  her  grandmother.  Old  Ma- 
non  fairly  chuckled  with  satisfaction,  and 
went  on  chattering  with  her  guest.  After 
this  startling  episode,  they  spoke  a  quaint 
dialect,  clipping  their  thin  words,  'and  dwell 
ing  lightly  on  the  objectionable  letters. 
Such  language  belonged  to  the  lips  and  not 
the  heart,  one  would  say  who  listened  and 
did  not  understand. 

Marie  did  not  mean  to  stay  any  longer 
than  she  could  help  ;  she  was  too  anxious  to 
give  herself  the  pleasure  of  reporting  such  a 
bit  of  news  elsewhere.  Some  persons  would 
take  the  lovers'  part,  and  there  might  be  a 
fine  discussion  presently,  in  the  little  shop 
across  the  way.  Manon  Pochette  was  in 
most  things  a  shrewd  woman;  one  cannot 
tell  why  she  chose  to  make  a  confidant  of 
the  least  reliable  of  her  neighbors. 

Manon  the  younger  grew  more  and  more 
angry  that  night  and  longed  more  and  more 


MERE  POCHETTE.  325 

to  find  her  hoped-for  letter.  If  she  could 
only  hold  it  in  her  hand,  she  believed  that 
she  could  easily  wait  for  daylight  and  read  it 
aloud  then  over  and  over,  until  she  knew  it 
by  heart.  She  lay  in  bed  beside  her  grand 
mother  with  wide  open  eyes  until  she  heard 
the  familiar  long-drawn  breaths  that  be 
longed  to  sound  sleep.  Then  she  crept  out 
softly,  and  went  like  a  mouse  about  the  room  ; 
she  felt  in  the  capacious  pocket,  in  a  little 
box  that  was  under  a  loose  board  in  the 
floor.  Her  heart  beat  fast  as  she  unwound 
the  long  cord  that  fastened  it,  but  there  was 
no  letter  anywhere.  The  old  woman  was 
growing  deaf  lately,  and  could  not  have 
heard  such  gentle  movements,  but  it  seemed 
a  perilous  enterprise,  and  proved  to  be  a  dis 
appointing  one.  If  Manon  only  knew  where 
to  write  to  her  lover,  or  if  she  only  knew 
how  to  follow  him,  it  would  be  enough,  but 
she  cried  herself  to  sleep  that  night  and  the 
next  night  and  the  next.  Before  many 
weeks  were  spent,  Father  Pierre  went  away 
suddenly  and  a  stranger  came  to  take  his 
place. 


326  MERE  POCHETTE. 


VII. 

The  winter  months  passed  by,  there  was 
sickness  in  the  village  of  Bona venture,  and 
everybody  longed  for  the  spring.  Manon 
had  grown  thin  and  pale ;  she  could  not  eat, 
she  would  not  smile,  her  life  was  spoiled 
at  its  outset,  and  Josephine,  who  had  meant 
to  be  a  friend  to  the  young  people,  bewailed 
her  indiscretion  and  wished  that  she  had 
tried  to  keep  young  Pictou  at  home.  There 
was  plenty  of  work  now  at  the  station  ;  they 
had  even  brought  some  young  men  from 
elsewhere,  and  Charles  might  have  been 
well  established,  if  only  he  had  gained  a 
little  patience.  "  We  that  fight  for  our 
selves  make  enemies  of  Heaven,"  she  sighed, 
and  tried  to  make  amends  with  prayers 
and  piteous  confessions  of  her  sins.  As  for 
the  letters,  they  had  long  ago  been  read  and 
laughed  over  and  burnt  in  the  priest's  room, 
and  Father  Pierre  had  given  old  Manon  a 
generous  glass  of  wine.  Josephine  had  seen 
it  through  the  keyhole.  She  never  told 
little  Manon  of  that ;  she  would  not  lower 
the  child's  reverence  for  the  priest  and  for 
sacred  things.  Father  Pierre  had  always 


MERE  POCHETTE.  327 

hated  Charles ;  alas  for  that  poor  human 
nature  that  even  his  holy  calling  could  not 
lift  above  the  earth  and  its  weaknesses. 

When  Mere  Pochette  looked  at  her  young 
housemate,  and  in  spite  of  herself  could  not 
help  pitying  the  dull  eyes  that  had  once  been 
so  bright,  and  the  faded  cheeks,  she  forgave 
herself  her  share  in  the  sad  change  ;  for  was 
not  she  thinking  always  that  every  day  added 
something  to  her  possessions,  and  that  by 
and  by  she  would  find  a  suitable  young  man, 
and  would  go  frankly  to  him  and  announce 
the  magnitude  of  little  Manon's  dowry.  All 
the  lads  gave  shy  glances  at  her,  the  pretty 
simpleton  !  There  must  be  thriving  grand 
sons  of  her  old  Quebec  acquaintances  by  this 
time ;  she  would  fling  her  money  east  and 
west  at  the  wedding,  and  then  work  on 
among  her  vegetables  until  her  time  for  de 
parture  came.  "  All,  yes,  she  shall  have 
all,"  the  old  woman  muttered  once  in  a  while 
and  blessed  herself  at  the  thought. 

At  last  her  plans  began  to  take  definite 
shape,  since  it  was  plain  something  must  be 
done.  The  neighbors  need  not  scowl  at  her, 
for  was  not  she  meaning  to  make  the  long- 
talked-of  journey  to  Quebec  as  soon  as  the 
.first  fine  weather  came,  and  her  garden  was 


328  MERE  POCHETTE. 

made  and  planted  ?  That  would  pay  Manon 
for  all  her  fancied  grievances,  and  as  the 
winter  waned  the  glories  of  that  expedition 
pictured  themselves  brighter  and  brighter. 
Manon  should  find  a  rich  husband  there  for 
a  certainty,  of  a  description  and  with  such 
amiable  qualities.  She  herself  would  indeed 
like  to  see  the  old  city  again  and  those  of 
her  friends  who  were  left.  Manon  would 
think  no  more  of  that  foolish,  handsome 
beggar  lad  who  had  forgotten  her  after  all ; 
she  had  nothing  else  but  him  to  think  of 
in  Bonaventure,  but  in  Quebec  she  would 
quickly  console  herself.  "  For  what  have  I 
slaved  myself  all  these  years  ?  "  the  old  wo 
man  would  demand  angrily  of  Marie.  "  I 
have  a  right  to  forbid  her  marriage  with  a 
worthless  lad,  and  I  only  step  in  to  keep  her 
from  her  mother's  fate  —  my  good  Jeanne, 
who  was  thrown  away  to  a  vagabond." 

But  when  the  early  spring  came,  little 
Manon  had  lost  her  strength  and  her  youth 
ful  spirit  altogether.  She  cared  nothing 
for  the  stories  about  Quebec,  which  were  at 
last  paraded  desperately.  She  sat  all  day 
in  the  doorway,  watching  the  long  trains 
come  across  the  plain  and  go  away  into  the 
dim  distance  of  the  north.  The  clouds  of 


MERE  POCHETTE.  329 

spring  hung  low,  and  when  sometimes  a  clear 
band  of  light  was  left  above  the  western 
horizon,  she  grew  hopeful  and  gazed  at  it  as 
if  some  blessed  vision  might  appear  there 
for  her  reassurance.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
child  of  misfortune  and  sorrow  must  have 
disappointment  for  her  inheritance.  The 
neighbors  scolded  to  each  other  about  old 
Manon  Pochette's  vast  wealth,  and  repeated 
their  conviction  over  and  over  that  she 
would  soon  only  have  herself  to  hoard  it  for, 
if  she  did  not  take  care. 

One  night  there  came  a  summons  to  the 
grandmother  that  Father  Henri,  the  new 
priest,  desired  her  to  remain  at  the  church 
after  early  mass  next  morning.  Mere  Po 
chette  obeyed  somewhat  unwillingly ;  she 
was  shy  of  this  stranger,  and  angry  beside 
that  indulgent  Father  Pierre  had  been  su 
perseded.  He  had  carried  more  than  one 
of  her  secrets  out  of  harm's  way,  that  was 
a  comfort ;  and  she  did  not  mean  to  take 
another  spiritual  adviser  so  far  into  her  con 
fidence. 

She  left  her  granddaughter  sleeping,  and 
sighed  a  little  as  she  stood  by  the  bedside 
looking  at  the  sad  face  of  the  young  creature 
who  was  after  all  the  dearest  thing  in  the 


330  MERE  POCHETTE. 

world.  Once  or  twice  lately  the  thought 
had  crossed  her  mind  that  the  first  thing  to 
be  thought  of  in  Quebec  was  a  good  doctor. 
More  than  one  silly  girl  had  pined  away 
and  faded  out  of  this  world  like  the  April 
snow-drifts  —  for  nothing  but  love's  sake  ; 
while  if  only  young  Pictou's  presence  would 
cure  little  Manon,  nobody  knew  where  to 
find  him.  Perhaps  Father  Pierre  would 
remember,  but  where  was  he  ? 

Early  mass  was  over,  the  sun  was  well 
above  the  horizon,  and  began  to  shine  warm 
ly  into  the  bare  church,  and  the  tarnished 
finery  of  the  altar  glittered  and  looked  quite 
splendid.  It  might  be  that  the  new  priest 
meant  to  beg  for  a  great  sum  of  money  for 
the  restoration  of  the  church  ;  some  one  had 
said  he  had  this  much  at  heart,  and  Ma- 
non's  face  was  black  for  a  moment  with  re 
sentment.  She  was  truly  very  anxious  now 
about  the  sick  girl  at  home.  As  she  knelt 
at  her  prayers  her  thoughts  kept  wandering 
homeward  instead  of  to  a  vague  heaven,  and 
a  great  throne  to  which  the  Bonaventure 
altar  was  a  plaything.  What  would  life  be 
worth  if  little  Manon  should  die  ?  Such  an 
event  would  make  her  own  prayers  and  good 
works  worse  than  useless,  for  it  was  her  own 


MERE  POCHETTE.  331 

short-sightedness  that  had  brought  this  grief. 
There  were  only  a  few  old  people  left  in 
the  church,  who  had  nothing  else  to  do  and 
could  take  their  time  at  their  rosaries  ;  the 
altar  boys  had  scuffled  in  the  vestry  and  gone 
away,  leaving  their  tumbled  and  torn  eccle 
siastical  raiment  on  the  floor.  Father  Henri 
had  flushed  angrily  when  he  caught  sight 
of  them,  and  quickly  opened  the  door  to  call 
the  young  rascals  back,  but  a  moment  after 
ward  he  gently  shut  it,  and  came  out  into 
the  church  tall  and  slender,  with  a  grave 
sweet  face,  stopping  to  kneel  before  the  altar 
as  he  passed  before  it  to  where  old  Manon 
Pochette  seemed  to  be  diligently  praying. 
She  was  watching  him  through  a  narrow 
crack  of  her  eyelids,  but  she  bowed  her  head 
as  he  approached  and  pressed  the  small 
worn  crucifix  to  her  breast.  The  slender 
cord  broke,  the  beads  separated  and  fell 
with  a  patter  like  hail  upon  the  floor.  "  Do 
not  gather  them  now,"  said  Father  Henri 
hurriedly,  but  somehow  the  old  woman  did 
not  dare  to  look  higher  than  the  frayed  hem 
of  his  long  black  gown.  It  was  scant  and 
made  of  poor  material,  she  observed,  and 
the  thought  seemed  like  a  reprieve  that  she 
would  make  him  a  present  of  a  new  one  at 


332  MERE  POCHETTE. 

Easter.  Easter  was  late  that  year,  and 
there  would  still  be  time.  Josephine  would 
know  the  proper  means  to  use  and  the  cost 
of  such  a  benevolence. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  followed  the 
good  man ;  they  made  obeisance  together 
side  by  side  as  they  crossed  to  the  vestry 
door.  The  old  parishioners  regarded  this 
with  interest,  and  wondered  what  was  going 
to  happen,  taking  counsel  of  each  other  in 
loud  whispers  as  the  door  was  shut.  Mere 
Pochette's  heart  was  quaking  ;  she  watched 
the  priest  while  he  picked  up  the  small  vest 
ments  and  half  smiled  as  he  heard  the  own 
ers'  merry  voices  outside.  Then  he  turned 
and  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket.  "  I 
bring  good  news  to  you  and  yours,"  he  said 
courteously ;  and  Manon  the  elder,  who  had 
feared  some  dire  calamity,  —  the  loss  of  her 
savings  or  the  death  of  young  Pictou  for  a 
certainty, — found  herself  growing  faint  and 
dizzy.  "  Sit  down,  my  child,"  said  the 
priest.  "  You  are  no  doubt  fasting.  Listen, 
I  will  read  this  letter." 

Once  to  hear  such  news  would  have  given 
Manon  a  fancied  foretaste  of  Heaven ;  now 
she  heard  it  without  excitement,  almost 
with  disappointment.  Her  poor  grandchild's 


MERE  POCHETTE.  333 

father  had  been  one  of  a  respectable  family, 
and  now  a  sum  of  money  equal  to  the  old 
Canadian's  own  fortune  had  fallen  to  the 
poor  sick  girl  at  home.  The  lawyer  had 
been  at  some  trouble  to  trace  the  heir. 
Father  Henri  volunteered  to  answer  the 
communication,  apd  with  some  surprise  at 
the  manner  in  which  it  had  been  received 
he  turned  away.  He  had  much  business  on 
hand  that  day,  there  was  a  visit  to  be  made 
to  a  dying  person  miles  away  down  one  of 
the  long  muddy  roads  of  Bonaventure  par 
ish. 

But  old  Manon  had  fallen  upon  her 
knees  ;  she  was  weeping  sorely  and  begging 
for  a  blessing.  She  had  sinned ;  she  was 
avaricious  and  stony-hearted  ;  the  good  God 
was  punishing  her  already  with  the  pains  of 
hell,  and  taking  her  one  treasure  to  himself. 

Father  Henri  listened  with  dismay.  "  I 
am  cursed  by  this  wealth,"  she  groaned,  and 
groveled  upon  the  floor  at  his  feet.  He 
knew  that  the  young  girl  was  ill,  but  in  that 
bleak  country  one  learns  to  take  such  dis 
pensations  without  surprise ;  the  tender  crea 
tures  are  kindly  gathered  to  the  dear  saints, 
and  taken  up  from  this  blighting  and  evil 
world. 


334  MERE  POCHETTE. 

"Listen,"  said  Manon  Pochette,  at  last 
regaining  her  composure  and  standing  be 
fore  the  priest  determinedly.  "  Listen,  you 
must  find  for  me  this  Charles  Pictou  before 
it  is  too  late.  I  cannot  let  this  my  child  die 
with  hatred  in  her  heart  toward  me.  I  am 
an  old  woman  ;  I  have  .had  my  way  long 
enough,  and  it  brings  me  only  sorrow  and 
shame.  I  will  send  him  money.  I  will 
treat  him  as  my  own  son.  I  will  tell  him 
all,  for  I  burnt  the  letters  that  he  wrote  to 
Manon  long  ago.  If  he  has  taken  another 
in  her  place,  the  punishment  will  be  mine." 
Was  this  the  hard-faced  woman  who  had 
looked  scornfully  in  even  Father  Henri's 
face  ?  He  closed  his  saintly  eyes  and  said 
a  prayer  as  he  stood  before  her,  and  raised 
his  hands  as  if  to  call  down  mercy  upon  the 
stricken  gray  head.  "  I  will  talk  with  you 
this  evening,"  he  promised,  and  they  parted 
silently. 

Little  Manon  had  waked  and  arisen,  and 
presently  she  crept  feebly  to  the  window  to 
watch  for  her  grandmother.  She  wondered 
what  kept  her  so  long  away.  The  big  black 
hats  of  the  neighbors  had  reappeared  in  the 
short  street,  and  the  day  was  begun  as  usual. 
The  men  were  off  to  their  work,  and  the 


MERE  POCHETTE.  335 

children  were  gathering  around  the  school- 
house.  The  sun  was  bright  and  clear,  and 
the  girl  felt  strengthened  and  cheered  by  it. 
She  heard  the  cars  presently;  perhaps  Charles 
might  yet  come  back,  though  she  had  almost 
ceased  to  look  for  such  a  happiness.  She 
grew  hungry,  she  became  tired  with  the  ex 
ertion  of  crossing  the  room,  she  was  so  weak 
that  the  tears  began  to  flow  down  her  thin 
cheeks.  "  My  grandmother  cares  nothing 
for  me,  nothing,"  she  mourned ;  "  she  is  bar 
gaining  with  old  Philippe,  the  gardener ; 
every  year  she  is  less  generous ;  "  but  at  that 
moment  Mere  Pochette  was  kneeling  in  pas 
sionate  grief  at  Father  Henri's  feet  in  the 
chilly  vestry. 

At  last  she  approached,  and  little  Manon 
was  filled  with  wonder  at  her  look.  "  You 
must  get  well  in  this  good  weather,"  she 
said ;  "  we  will  go  soon  to  Quebec,  and  you 
shall  have  the  one  you  love  best  for  com 
pany.  Forgive  me  at  last,  my  child,"  but 
the  sick  girl  could  not  comprehend  the  full 
meaning  of  such  words,  though  the  speaker 
stood  there  appealing,  repentant,  the  square, 
sensible  business  woman  who  could  be 
cheated  by  no  one.  And  now  little  Manon 
rose  and  put  her  arms  close  about  the  weep- 


336  MERE  POCHETTE. 

ing  grandmother's  neck.  Only  yesterday 
faithless  Marie  Binet  had  announced  that 
this  neck  should  in  the  name  of  justice  be 
encircled  by  a  halter. 

The  train  from  the  States  was  just  out  of 
sight  that  very  morning  —  its  long  plume  of 
smoke  had  hardly  drifted  away  in  the  clear 
air  before  a  handsome  young  man  came 
lightly  up  the  street.  He  did  not  stop  at  any 
of  the  drinking  shops  near  the  station,  as 
most  men  did,  but  he  hurried  toward  the  older 
village  on  the  ridge  above  —  the  straight,  uni 
form  row  of  ancient  French  houses,  and  from 
several  of  these  eager  eyes  followed  him  to 
the  end  of  the  settlement.  Then  the  various 
housekeepers  rushed  out  to  confer  with  each 
other  upon  the  astonishing  event  of  young 
Charles  Pictou's  incomprehensible  return. 
It  was  like  unneighborly  old  M£re  Pochette 
to  have  sent  for  him  without  giving  anybody 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  it,  but  at  that  mo 
ment  she  was  thanking  blessed  Mary  and 
Joseph,  her  patron  saints,  for  this  miracle 
straight  from  the  skies.  It  was  seldom  at 
any  rate  that  an  emigrant  returned  so  soon. 
Charles  had  a  prosperous  air  already,  and 
the  whole  village  was  in  commotion  that 
morning,  while  Father  Henri  was  called  to 


MERE  POCHETTE.  337 

a  noble  feast  the  moment  he  returned  from 
his  errand  of  consolation. 

The  young  habitants,  who  still  wore  red 
worsted  belts  with  tassels,  looked  at  their  for 
mer  neighbor's  fine  clothes  with  admiration. 
He  was  earning  good  wages  with  prospect 
of  advance,  but  he  had  become  too  miserable 
at  the  strange  silence.  He  was  not  so  very 
far  away,  and  had  taken  his  first  chance  to 
see  little  Manon  again.  He  had  sent  let 
ters  to  prudent  Father  Pierre,  but  that  wor 
thy  had  kept  silence,  being  at  any  rate  at  a 
great  distance  from  Bonaventure  over  seas. 

So  Manon' s  strength  came  back  again  in 
this  sunshine  of  happiness,  and  the  lovers 
presently  were  married  and  lived  their  sim 
ple  lives  together.  The  world  was  a  com 
fortable  place  enough  without  going  to  Que 
bec,  but  the  occasion  of  Mere  Pochette's 
grandchild's  wedding  could  be  marked  by 
nothing  less  than  such  a  journey,  and  she 
saw  her  children  lead  their  procession  of 
caleches,  with  immense  complacency,  living 
her  own  youthful  joys  over  again  in  their 
behalf,  as  one  returns  in  autumn  to  the 
meadows  where  one  has  gathered  the  flowers 
of  spring. 

Old  Manon  bore  a  vast  bundle  when  she 


338 

returned  to  Bonaventure,  and  took  from  it 
proudly  a  handsome  cassock  for  Father 
Henri.  The  good  man  was  at  his  devotions, 
but  she  gave  it  to  Josephine  and  lingered 
for  a  few  moments  to  have  a  friendly  talk. 
She  had  brought  Josephine  herself  a  remem 
brance  of  less  value.  "  He  is  a  blessed 
saint,  this  father,"  the  stayer  at  home  said. 
"  He  speaks  no  harsh  word,  but  goes  before 
us  like  a  holy  shepherd !  "  and  the  house 
keeper  blessed  herself  as  devoutly  as  she 
could  have  blessed  the  priest  himself.  The 
ancient  holiday  maker  could  not  linger ;  her 
shrewd  eyes  had  detected  a  grievous  neglect 
of  her  young  cabbages  on  the  part  of  their 
guardian,  old  Philippe.  He  had  not  ex 
pected  her  home  so  soon,  the  pig  !  Pres 
ently  the  round  black  hat  made  its  appear 
ance  among  the  weeds,  a  new  and  imposing 
great  black  bonnet  having  been  laid  aside, 
and  one  would  find  it  hard  to  believe  that 
Mere  Pochette  had  taken  so  great  a  journey. 
The  neighbors  came  one  by  one  without 
fear  or  reproach  and  leaned  over  the  railing 
of  the  garden.  They  were  all  very  good- 
natured,  for  had  not  one  of  their  own  Bona 
venture  lads  secured  the  old  miser's  money 
after  all  ?  The  high-roofed  white  house  was 


MERE  POCHETTE.  339 

lonely  that  night ;  the  upper  casements 
were  wide  open,  and  the  color  of  little  Ma- 
non's  deserted  red  geraniums  could  be  seen 
in  the  bright  moonlight.  Little  Manon  her 
self ,  rich  and  happy,  had  gone  away  to  the 
States. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JUL13 


SEJP21  1988 


MAR 


'••        ..  . 


CU.  OCT    7'82 


OCT    3D85 


JAN    91986 


A/a\x  Co 


ISC.MIG29  'BP 


191 


LD21A-30m-10,'73 
(R3728slO)476— A-30 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


GENERAL  UBRABY-U.C.  BERKELEY 


9530 i 2 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


